


Crack of Dawn

by SonaBuvelle534



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood and Gore, Dark Character, Gore, M/M, Medical Torture, Murder, Murder Mystery, Murder-Suicide, POV GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Psychological Torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Triggers, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-21 02:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 48,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30014904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonaBuvelle534/pseuds/SonaBuvelle534
Summary: A serial killer AU that revolves around a local psychopath taking a liking to a guy on his vacation to Florida with his friends.352k chapter reads on wattpad.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch/Other(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

The extremely loud music coming from all directions threatened to blast George's eardrums right in, but he had never felt this alive. The thrumming beats were coursing through his veins, pushing against his chest. He moved his body to the rhythm of the deafening notes coming from the speakers all around him, bumping into the other dancers.

The spotlights bounced off the glass dance floor, the glow intoxicating him. He couldn't see his feet move and all the other people were a blur. With no sense of direction, it was easier to get lost in himself.

A hand wrapped around his arm, roughly tugging him out of the rowdy party goers, pulling him to the side. Once his head was generous enough to stop spinning, he was able to get his eyes to focus on the face in front of him for longer.

"Wha... What... are you..." George spoke as if pushing every sound of out his mouth required a tremendous amount of effort, stumbling over his own feet. The same hand reached out to steady him. He finally managed to form a comprehensible sentence, "What are you doing?"

"We're going back to the hotel, George." His friend enunciated each word with exaggerated mouth movements to make sure George could understand clearly.

George tried to swat his friend away and jump back into the commotion, but a hand reached out and gripped the back of his shirt. He flailed against the grip uselessly, finally giving in and slumping over.

He leaned onto his friend for support, allowing himself to be carried into a cab with the rest of the guys. They all seemed more or less plastered, unable to sit up straight. It seemed that Sapnap had been the one to gather them all together, being the only sober one. He'd always been the responsible friend.

The drive back to the hotel passed in a flash - George was being shaken awake in front of the hotel building without even realizing he'd fallen asleep. A putrid stench was wafting through the air, seemingly coming from one of his friends, on all fours, heaving near the sidewalk. A puddle of murky brown sludge was splattered across the road, a little bit still dripping from the guy's mouth.

George attempted to crawl out of the car, terribly failing and falling onto the pavement face first instead. He groaned, pulling himself up. The world was swirling and twisting in front of him - the buildings and trees morphing into unrecognizable shapes.

He felt Sapnap come to the rescue again as he was picked up and slung over his shoulder. The hotel staff had seemingly been used to this kind of thing occurring - they _did_ work at a beachside resort after all. Parties were prominent. They helped in bringing the rest of his friends to their shared room, while George was being taken care of.

He was thrown onto the bed by a breathless Sapnap. "You're so fucking heavy, jeez." A blanket was tossed over him as he was left alone.

He could hear his friends piling into the room, bumping into furniture, shouting and laughing. He drowned their voices out, though, immediately nodding off.


	2. Chapter 2

George lay in the bed, too messed up to move. His bones ached every time he shifted. The fun effects of the ridiculous amounts of alcohol he had put in his system last night were gone, leaving only the dry mouth, splitting aches and the will to die behind.

He clutched his forehead as he embarked on his quest to merely stand up. A trivial task that usually took him a couple of seconds had turned into a harrowing experience.  
He fought against every muscle in his body begging him to stop, to just lay back down and never move again.

Finally, he was sitting upright, too afraid to take his weight off the bed. He felt the carpet under his feet, the texture sending vibrations throughout his whole body. He quickly jolted back, kicking it away.

With a hand on the nightstand, he attempted putting his body weight on his legs, instead. The neverending shivers all over his limbs wasn't helping, forcing him to stay bound to the bed.

He stared at the floor as he saw a pair of slippers making their way out of the bathroom and into the shared bedroom. A hand reached out to help him up, bringing him over to the couch.

He took the time while he was standing upright to take a look around the room. It was basic, with simple essential furniture. He realized how bad his hangover was when even the barely noticeable odor of furniture cleaner made his skull feel like it had split in two. He asked his friend to crack open a window while he made himself comfortable on the couch.

"Thanks, Sap." He kicked his feet up on the coffee table in front of him, earning a disapproving glance from Sapnap. "What time is it?"

He waited as the man checked his phone, then took a seat next to him. "2 PM."

George leaned over to grab the TV remote from the table, tremors running through his body as soon as he moved. He was pulled back into the soft couch before he could fall over.

"Would be great if I could actually perform basic human tasks, y'know?" His voice was bitter from frustration.

Sapnap leaned over to grab the remote and pressed a button. "Well, it would also be great if you guys hadn't gotten shitfaced and basically punted the responsibility of dragging you to the hotel right at me."

He sounded reproachful, but George didn't have enough brainpower to worry about that. He diverted his attention to the news that was playing on the television, broadcasting a gruesome story about a local murder.

"-onto the local news. We bring you this story just two hours after the incident. A chilling murder has taken place at Biscayne Boulevard. The law enforcement believes this to be the doing of the culprit known as The Daybreak Killer by the local communities behind the chain murders all around Miami. The victim was found hanging upside down, suspended by a rope around their leg from a utility pole on the roadside. The forensics team has declared the murder to have taken place at around exactly two hours before this broadcast. Currently, no witnesses have been identified. The investigation is currently ongo-"

The screen flickered to a home baking channel as Sapnap changed the channel.

"I was watching that!" George whined, trying to take hold of the remote, but all his friend had to do was hold it at arm's reach for it to be inaccessible to him. "Biscayne Boulevard is where we're staying! Come on!"

He may have been unable to do anything else, but playing into Sapnap's cautious side was all he needed to do to get what he wanted - the channel was changed yet again, back to the pictures of the crime scene.

The words 'The Hanged Man' had been painted in the victim's blood along the sidewalk, in perfectly formed letters. It seemed as if the killer hadn't been in a hurry, even as the victim had been displayed in plain sight.

"Scary stuff." As horrifying the broadcast was, he couldn't help but keep his eyes glued to the screen. "Hey Sap-"

He was interrupted by urgent shushing. Upon looking to his side, he discovered that his friend was even more enticed by the show. George continued to listen.

"We advise any tourists and locals near the Biscayne Boulevard to refrain from leaving their residence around Sundown, as law enforcement believes that to be the peak time these murders take place. As always, this was Rachel Raymond with Morning News. Stay safe, everyone."

With that, the story was over, and the channel turned over to the weather forecast.

"Freaky." George whistled out, trying to give his friend a fright.

"Yeah. No more partying past midnight for you guys." He stood up to get a glass of water, holding it out. "Not that I'm complaining."

George took it, downing it in one go. "Psh, yeah, whatever, mom." The cold water made his head hurt even more as it trailed down his throat. He placed the glass on the table, laying back on the couch. "Where are the rest of the guys?"

"The hotel wouldn't allow all six of us to stay in the same room. Something about it being a fire hazard." Sapnap walked to the door. "You gonna be okay by yourself for a while? I'm gonna check on the others."

George nodded. As soon as he was alone in the hotel room, he pulled out his phone, typing 'The Daybreak Killer' in the search bar. A bunch of pictures popped up, alongside with news articles. He took his time scrolling through all of it.

It seemed the locals had given the serial killer a few different names - The Sundown Murderer, The Dream Doctor, The Masked Butcher. And of course, the most widespread alias, The Daybreak Killer. George shuddered even thinking about some of those names.

It seemed that the criminal had been plaguing towns all over Florida for nearly a decade now. His killings had been thematic - a different one for each year. He left a branded smiley face at every crime scene, as if to taunt the investigators.

The "hunts" were most prominent just before sunrise, it appeared. The consistency of his malicious wrongdoings struck a fear in the most stoic of townspeople.

All of the cases still appeared to be ongoing, since the killer seemed to be extremely cautious with leaving clues. The hints that had been left behind in the past turned out to have been meticulously planted by the culprit himself, with the intention of misleading the detectives.

He managed to dig up a few pictures of the most recent murders. A young married couple, their mangled bodies discovered near a tree by a small child at 6AM. 'The Lovers' painted in the same perfect letters in blood next to them.

A body of a corrupt judge, with a red robe sewn into his skin. A weird staff with a triple cross symbol clutched in his hand. 'The Hierophant' painted nearby, presumably from the blood coming from the gaping hole in his stomach. His heart had been removed, and his eyes sewn shut with the same red thread used on the robe. It seemed the murderer was a fan of symbolism. The body had been found by a man on his morning jog at 5 AM.

A local stage magician, sprawled out on a bed of roses and lilies in a flower field with a knife, a goblet and coins laying around him, displayed in precise placement. Again, words painted in blood next to him reading 'The Magician'. The body had been found at 1 AM by a group of teenagers sneaking off to a party.

That seemed to be all the victims for that year. George hurriedly closed the tab when he heard the doorknob turn.

"Hey." Sapnap's voice sounded from behind him. "The boys don't wanna stay inside tonight. Do you wanna go with them?"

"Sap. Nick." He got up on his knees on the couch, turning around to face his friend. "This isn't about what we saw on the news, is it?"

The sigh told him all he needed to know. Admittedly, he'd been a little freaked out as well, but not enough to ruin their vacation.

"Dude, come on." George knew he couldn't convince his friend, but he had to try. "You can't always be the responsible friend. Loosen up a little!"

Nick crossed his arms from the other side of the room. "I'm not coming, George."

George slumped back into the soft couch. "Fine, loser. But don't be jealous when we have fun." He turned off the TV, the talking coming from it felt like it was poking needles in his brain. "I'm gonna take a nap now."

Sapnap laid a blanket over him, walking off and sitting on the bed behind him, out of eyesight. George snoozed off, slipping into a dreamless slumber.


	3. Mask

The time on George's phone read 11:27 PM. The guys were lounging all over the room, Sapnap sulking in the corner since none of the boys wanted to listen to him. Better safe than sorry, he'd said, earning a collective groan from the group.

George pulled on his shoes, grabbing a jacket with all his essentials. He opened the door and headed for the elevator, the rest of his friends piling in after him.

The night was cool and quiet save for the distant shouts and music coming from the beachside. They split off as soon as they got to the party, George immediately heading for the bar off to the side, far from the commotion. He'd need at least a handful of shots to deal with the noisy crowd.

He took full advantage of the open bar, downing shot after shot, the liquid leaving a searing trail down his throat. After losing count, he decided to join the huge mass of dancing people. He shoved his way in, positioning himself in the center, losing himself in the music.

The crowd slowly started to dissipate as the hosts started to set up the preparations for the nightly firework show. He was about to join the spectators when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Nick?" Sapnap was standing behind him, smiling. He quickly turned around. "I thought you didn't wanna come?"

The man shrugged. "Ah, well. Couldn't leave you idiots alone." He walked over to stand beside George. "Wanna see something cool?"

George kept an eye on the fireworks they were about to use to put on a display. "Cooler than the fireworks?"

"Way way cooler. Come on." Sapnap waved him over, leading him away from the party.

They stopped in front of a bar, surrounded by closed up shops. The streets were empty and dim, illuminated only by a single streetlight standing across the street.

"Dude, a creepy bar. Really?" George rolled his eyes. "You know the drinks are free back there, right?"

Sapnap opened his mouth to say something, but his voice was drowned out by the first firework taking off with a bang. Instead, he opted for hand gestures, leading him over to the side of the bar.

The street branched off into a narrow path next to the building, leading to a rundown apartment complex and a motel. George was feeling adventurous, and his sense of judgment was clouded by the excessive alcohol in his system. He stumbled after Sapnap as the roars from the firework show picked up pace.

His friend stopped, pointing towards a dilapidated door on the ground floor of the motel. He could make out some words between the noise.

"Right there." Sapnap stood aside to make way for him.

"Dude, I'm not going in there." George turned around to head back to the party. "It's like a... crack den or something. Let's go."

But he'd only taken one step when he felt a tight grip on his arm, holding him in place. There was a dead serious look on his friend's face, making him a little unnerved. Slowly, he parted his lips into a toothy smile. His eyes glinted from the light reflected onto them from the gloomy streetlight.

He jerked his hand backwards, making George stumble closer to the dingy motel building. "Come on now, George." He tilted his head to the side, flashing him a wide grin. "What happened to being the adventurous one?"

George counted in his head. On the count of three, he pushed his friend with all his might, barely slipping from his grip and making a mad run for the light. He stumbled over his own feet a couple of times, the intoxication dawdling his movements.

"George! Get back here, right now!" the usually collected man sounded agitated, like a kid whose prize had gotten away from them. The memory of his unhinged smile sent shivers down George's spine as he tried to run, leaning against the alley walls for support. The popping of the fireworks didn't mix well with his clouded mind, making his movements even more uncoordinated and distracted.

He could hear a pair of feet closing the distance behind him inhumanely fast, before he felt a dull pain in his head and he blacked out.

__________

He woke up sitting upright. Whatever dull colors were in the dark room were swirling around in his vision. A putrid scent was wafting through the air, burning up his nose.

The back of his head was numb, sending stabbing pain cascading around the spot. He looked down at his scraped hands and tattered pants, with rips and cuts on the knees. His hands were bleeding. His hands... that were tied to the handles of the chair he was sitting on.

He thought he could smell a coppery tang coming from behind him for a split second, before it got replaced by the rancid stench again.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, he took a look around. A surgical table, rolled to the far side of the room. Bookshelves and cabinets littered with countless trinkets, labeled jars, colorful liquids and rags.

There was a toolbox sitting on a little stool in front of him, and a stained sledgehammer thrown haphazardly across the room. There were no windows, the only thing illuminating the place being an oil lamp sitting by his feet. There was a bare light bulb dangling above him from what he could see, but it was off.

The windowless, damp concrete room reminded him of a basement. He tried not to panic as he examined the bounds preventing him from moving. The knots were thick and rubbing his hands against the rope as he tried to pry them free only chafed his arms, the friction peeling off a patch of skin.

George whimpered in pain as he gave up his plan and leaned back against the chair. There had to be something he could use. He kicked his feet around, trying to reach the oil lamp just out of reach. If he couldn't escape, he was going to at least attempt to burn this place down and take everything down with him.

A deep, guttural laugh coming from a dark corner made him jump. A towering figure emerged from the shadows, kneeling in front of George's chair. He had a switchblade in his gloved hand, spinning it around awfully close to the ropes, grazing the fingers clutched around the armrests. He hid his face behind a white mask, with a smiley face painted on it in black paint, the lines neat and immaculate.

A sinking feeling made its way down George's gut as his breath hitched. He instantly recognized the familiar symbol from the case pictures. The figure seemed pleased at the horrified look on his face, tilting his head to the side. He brought the extended switchblade up to George's face, holding up his chin with the tip. The penetrating gaze with which the stranger examined him made him feel vulnerable, like it was boring right through him and into his soul.

Of course, he couldn't actually see the man's eyes. All he could see was the dirty blonde hair peeking out from above the mask. Every inch of his skin was covered - he was wearing a hoodie covering his neck and a pair of gloves concealing his hands. He seemed satisfied, letting out a small affirmative hum.

"This one good enough for ya?" He instantly recognized that voice. Sapnap.

The figure nodded, wordlessly picking up a container from one of the shelves, handing it to the man, who quickly looked it over.

"Nick?!" George cried out, throat raw and burning from the alcohol. "Nick, please, help!"

All he got as a response was a laugh from the two standing in front of him. The masked stranger placed his switchblade down, picking up a needle and filling it with a strange oozing liquid from a tub. He dangled the needle back and forth as George squirmed in his seat. Sapnap watched with untamed curiosity and excitement as the tip of the needle was pressed against his throat. The man grazed it along the skin lightly, before plunging it deep into his veins. A piercing prickle radiated through George as he screamed out. White hot pain surged all over his vision, blinding him.

"Woah, cool shit." Sapnap had a shit eating grin on his face. "What was that?"

The masked man spoke for the first time. His voice was deep, sending minor tremors through the room. "Strychnine mixed with a liquid anesthetic. The poison's extremely painful and deadly, and the anesthetic will put him to sleep so the body has a harder time resisting it."

"Dope." Sapnap tucked the container he was given under his arm. "Thanks for the payment. I'll get you another one soon." He circled back around George, as his footsteps faded away.

The stranger put two fingers on the back of George's head and pressed them down, sending excruciating pain down his body. He pushed even harder as George screamed out, begging him to stop. He slowly drew his fingers back, drenched in thick, dark red.

"Ah. So it hasn't kicked in yet." The man leaned back, grabbing a spool of red thread and a sewing needle from his toolkit. "As much as I like how you scream... I _do_ need to keep you alive. Pity. My sewing skills are a little rusty, so this _will_ hurt. "

George's vision blurred and morphed into blots, fading to black before he could feel anything happen.


	4. First Trip

Soft flicking across his forehead. He opened his eyes, trying to stave off the grogginess. His hands were raw from the friction against the ropes, and his bones and joints were aching from unuse.

As his vision focused, memories started to flood back to him. He groaned out as he tried to adjust himself into a more comfortable position, although none were convenient after being bound to a chair for god knows how long.

The basement was still dark, but George could see more or less clearly. The masked man stood in front of him, with his fingers floating right in front of his forehead. He glanced up, earning another flick.

"Good, you're awake. Not an ideal recovery time." He grabbed a notepad from the stool, jotting something down. "The best so far, though. I expected you to die."

George drew his head back, and spat right in his captor's face. "Go to hell."

The man grabbed a stained rag to wipe his mask, retrieving a makeshift gauntlet from the shelves and slipping it on. He flexed the fingers to test the flexibility before he lunged at George and wrapped the metallic fingers around his throat, squeezing tight.

"Now, as a guest, I expect you to behave." The close proximity voice as he leaned down sent goosebumps down George's spine. He gasped for air as the fingers tightened, cutting off the air to his windpipe. "Are we clear?"

George struggled for breath, slightly moving his head up and down as the grip was lifted. His face was flushed. The figure pulled out a second chair, taking a seat across from George. He slipped off the gauntlet, laying it on the floor far out of reach.

"Good." He leaned back, admiring his prey. Not so much a prey, since he'd already been captured. But his movements radiated nothing but malice and, as much as George hated to admit it, confidence. "Welcome to your home for the rest of your life."

He stranger held out his hand for a handshake, laughing to himself when he spotted George's bound arms. This situation seemed to amuse the captor - maybe he even got off on it like some sick power play.

"Listen, I don't know who the fuck you think I am, but you've got the wrong person." George forced out pained words through his stinging throat. "If you let me go, I'll-"

A booming laugh interrupted him. "Let you _go_? Now, why would I do that? You're the most promising subject yet. And the fiercest guest, that's for sure. The others gave up an hour in, begging and screaming for mercy, which-"

"That's enough!" George tried to kick the chair the figure was sitting in over, but it was just out of reach, the distance seemingly calculated down to the millimeter. "Please. I don't want any part of whatever the fuck you're doing down here."

The man crossed his legs, leaning back into his chair like he was having a casual conversation with an acquaintance. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. What manners!" He retrieved a pill from his pocket. "Interrupting your host like that... No, I'll have to teach you not to be disrespectful."

He stood up, leaning over and forcing George's mouth open. He stuffed the pill in, which instantly fizzled and melted, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His tongue swole up, spreading a numb feeling throughout the entire area.

"The ffffuck did you jutht fffeed me?!" George slurred his words, unable to speak properly.

"Ah, you're probably just allergic to the drug. Suck it up." The man stood up, dusting himself off. "PCP. You might know it as 'angel dust'. I'm surprised you haven't had it, your friend has mentioned you're _quite_ the party spirit."

The stranger giggled to himself. He picked up the notepad, writing something down on it.

"It's a drug that causes hallucinations. Out of body experiences, to be precise." He tapped the tip of the pen against the paper. "You're going to have a blast if your trip goes well. If not, then..."

He shrugged in an exaggerated manner and brought one of his fists up to his mask, making a crying motion.

"It should be kicking in anytime now." He bounced his knee impatiently. "Agh, blast you and your resistant body!"

With that, he grabbed a tiny bottle from his bookshelf, turning it over in his hand. A few pills fell out, landing on his grimy gloves. George's attempts to resist were fruitless, as the handful was shoved into his mouth as well.

His breath hitched, his mouth throbbing from all the swelling. The browns hues of the room twisted and turned into warm golden shades. He was transported on top of a sand dune, looking over the area. Just flat surface of sand as far as the naked eye could reach.

"What do you see?" The sudden voice made him jump as the man materialized in front of him in the shape of a gust of wind, disturbing the flawless surface of the desert. Each word he spoke sent particles flying towards George, getting in his face.

"Fuck off." He spat at the wind, only to be met with a sharp slap across the face. He whimpered, clutching his cheek. His actual hand never reached his face, though.

"Tell me!" The man roared, the gust of wind turning into a small sandstorm. "Tell me what you see!"

"I... I see sand. It's getting in my face. I want to leave." A thoughtful hum from the man. The sandstorm grew a little more. "Please stop. Your voice is making the storm bigger."

"Oh, is it?" A small pause as the stranger awaited a reaction. "Are my short and precise inquiries making your trip worse? Tell me, is it growing right now? Is it enveloping you in its wrath? Maybe the sand is getting in your eyes... Or maybe it's burying you deep into the desert like quicksand?"

The sandstorm had escalated into a full on hurricane all around George. He tried to shield his face, to no avail. The specks of sand picked up by the strong storm were carried all around him, going in his mouth, up his nose, through his eyes and ears. He screamed out, the coarse particles scratching at his insides. He looked down to see the tips of his fingers crumbling off, joining the endless current of sand.

"I'm... I'm disappearing! I'm turning into sand!" Panic rose in his voice as his right arm completely broke off.

"You're a part of the desert now, aren't you?" A calm sigh. "Goes to show how _insignificant_ you are. Just a little speck in the sea of others. And you still have hope someone out there will come after you?"

"They will, and they'll put you behind bars for good, you sick fuck!" George thrashed and kicked, watching his limbs slowly dissolve into dust.

"I could never understand you common folk. You think you're so relevant and cared for... All it takes it is someone like me to meddle in your perfect lives." He felt hands on his shoulder as a face leaned in close. The sandstorm took the shape of a smiling head. "You're all so caught up with... work and sex and money and whatever else you like... Tell me this."

A finger was placed under his chin to bring it up. His eyes met the blistering sun, blinding him. He flinched back, but a hand gripped his face, forcing him to look on.

"What do _you_ like? What makes you tick?" Fingers ran across his cheek, grazing against the skin. "I'm going to find it... And exploit it. I'm going to make you scream and cry and feel things you've never felt before."

George's eyes started to sting with tears. He was frustrated with how utterly helpless he felt, strapped to a chair in some phychopath's basement, being force fed hallucinogens. He felt like a puppet taking place in a child's play, being tossed around and ripped apart at the puppet master's whim.

Something wet and hot ran up the length of his throat. Tears ran down his cold cheeks as he completely dissipated into the sand below him, leaving nothing but a wisp of air behind.

The yellow of the desert smudged into a dirt brown. He was standing in mud, wading through a thick swamp. He kept running, not knowing what or who he was trying to escape from.

A bite at the spot he'd felt the wetness before. Then another, and another, trailing down his throat to his collarbone. A hot breath against his face as the invisible force pulled away. A hand gripped his face, jerking it slightly to the side.

"You can't see me, can you?" A soft kiss was laid on his cheekbone. "But I bet you can feel everything. And I have a lot of things I can make you feel."

He sped up his pace in the mud. The swamp was slowly turning black, as if tar was being funneled into it. His movements slowed down, becoming more sluggish.

A snap of what sounded like a small twig, then the crackle of a fire. George instantly recognized the sound of a match being lit. The hot sun above him seemingly drew closer, leaving red hot blisters all over his body.

"How does that make you feel?" The sun pressed on as he slowly started to melt into goop. "Hm... Not sure about you, but your reactions are extremely pleasing to me."

He couldn't move anymore. The swamp had completely disappeared, and his legs were submerged in hot thick tar.

"P-please..." He whimpered out. The black liquid rose up, covering him up to his nose. He had to tilt his head upwards not to suffocate. "Get me out of here!"

Another bite left on his collarbone. "I will." Then on his earlobe. George could do nothing but sit, unmoving, completely helpless as his captor had his way with him. "When I'm satisfied."

He felt the tears rolling down his face being replaced with a familiar wetness, a tongue being run over his cheek. The complete sense of violation only made him cry more, earning a soft kiss on his temple.

"As much as I'd love to keep going, I don't want to completely break my new toy." The man snickered, though George could see nothing but thick tar enveloping him. "Let's wrap things up, shall we?"

A quick final kiss was pressed onto his jaw as the black liquid completely submerged him. His screams were drowned out by the viscous mass, swallowing him whole.  



	5. The Deck

The stranger stood in front of him, holding a plate. The bulb over the chair was lit, giving off an electronic buzz as it dangled.

"Slept well?" The man held out the plate. A greasy pie was laid out on it, with a dollop of cream on top. "You'll need the energy, trust me."

George swung out his legs, kicking him right in the knees. His captor didn't even flinch, though. He placed down the pie on the stool, walking over to the bookshelves and retrieving a coil of rope and what looked like a metal clasp.

"Since you want to act up..." He kneeled down, bounding George's legs against the chair, whose kicks and pleas were futile. "Oh, and this is a shock collar."

He danged the metallic object in front of his face, then snapped it on George's neck. The cold surface instantly made him shudder.

"Fuck you." George spat out, but instantly regretted it as an electric current ran down his body, making him shriek.

"You have a nice voice." The man sat on a chair across from him. "I could listen to you scream all day. Who knows, maybe I will."

The pie was held out to him once more, and he opened his mouth to be fed. The oily dough filled his mouth with an unpleasant taste as soon as he took the first bite. He gagged, throwing it out.

"Now, now..." The chunk was picked up and hovered in front of his mouth again. "Eat up."

After the rest of the pie was gone, the man stood up and walked over to a table pushed up to a wall. George hadn't noticed it before - it was filled with makeshift electric equipment, homemade distillers, glass bottles, dishes and little jars. The table reminded him of a laboratory workstation, but this one gave off a way more sinister vibe.

The man hummed an unfamiliar tune as he tinkered with the mechanism. The shrill, high notes made George feel both enchanted and queasy.

"Nice song."

"Thanks. My mom used to sing it to me all the time." The man sighed, heating up the beaker.

George watched as the dish bubbled and red foam fizzled up at the top. "Is she dead?" Normally he'd approach the subject more lightly, but he had no remorse for this man.

A roaring laugh. The echos bounced off the walls, making it seem like it was coming from all directions. "No, my mother doesn't die." He kept working, not bothering to elaborate on the strange statement.

George tilted his head to the side. "Care to, I dunno, explain?"

The man gave him a quick glance over his shoulder as he spoke. "My mother is the one that taught me this craft." He gestured all around the room with an outstretched arm. "All my knowledge and work, I owe it to her. She lives within me."

George would be delighted and a little teared up if this was coming from a normal person. However, he found himself sitting there with not a shift in his expression. Maybe living in a sociopath's basement was taking its toll on him, or maybe he just hated this man's guts.

He definitely hadn't expected the training of the most feared killers in the world to be the doing of a mother. He imagined what it would be like, a little boy and his mom sitting side by side, revising the recipes for chemical drugs and bludgeoning techniques.

"You still haven't told me what you want with me." George leaned his head back in an attempt to soothe his aching neck.

The man took his time siphoning the foamy liquid into small vials, laying them on the shelves. He worked with extreme grace, like his hands had done this a thousand times. They probably had.

"You still haven't figured it out, have you?" He asked, not bothering to face him. "The theme."

"The... theme."

The man slammed his hands on the table in frustration. "The theme of this year's murders!" He bellowed, making the room shake.

George stayed silent in fear of what would come if he said no. He trembled as he watched the man abandon his task and pull up a chair in front of him.

"I think it's time I properly introduced myself." He crossed his legs, drumming his fingers together. The light cast shadows under him. The former viciousness had completely left his posture, leaving only a calm façade. "I'm who people call The Daybreak Killer. Not my favorite nickname, but it is what it is."

"I know who you are, you son of a bitch." George tried to kick the man's chair back, but all he could do was struggle against the ropes.

The man clicked his tongue, shaking his head. He grabbed the remote for the collar, sending another shockwave throughout George's body as he screamed out.

"Tsk, tsk. Language. As I was saying..." He slid the device in his pocket, resuming his former pose. "To spice things up a little, every year I change up my theme. My... yearly art exhibition, if you will. See, Just like any other artist, I need inspiration."

George could only watch as the man trailed off into delusional one sided discourse. He lacked all the mannerisms of a normal human when he spoke, staying unmoving with his eyes locked on the target.

"Are you familiar with the major Arcana?" When he was met with silence, he continued. "A deck of cards, each holding a value of a story. Each one depicting a symbol."

He left his seat, retrieving an ornate box from the bottom cabinets of the bookshelf. He brought it over and laid it on his knees as he sat back down.

George had never seen anything so exquisitely crafted. The golden ornaments swirled around the red velvet box, holding it closed with gentle clasps. The man flicked them upwards, and the box swung open, revealing a deck of cards.

"I got it as a present for my 13th birthday. It's always been my lucky number. And the 13th major Arcana-" He held up a card depicting a skeletal figure on a white horse, holding a black and white flag. A king lay dead in front of it, townsfolk and priests praying in its presence down on their knees. "Is Death. Inescapable."

He turned the card around as he watched it in awe with his head tilted to the side. George felt squeamish at how entranced the man looked with the tarot card depicting Death.

"Invincible. No one can escape him. And yet, people try." He gently held the card in between his fingers. "It's my favorite major Arcana. It's the one I identify with. And it's the theme the last victim will be executed by."

He carefully put the card back in the box, pulling out another one.  
"I don't plan on any more themes after this. This will be my last 'rampage', so to say." George could only see the back of the card he was holding. "When the time comes and I collect all the bodies in the form of a tarot deck, I'll fulfill my task as the last death."

"You're going to... kill yourself." George finally spoke, raising his eyebrow. "Why not do that right now?"

The man gave a soft laugh. "Because I have a mission to take care of." He turned the card around.

"The... Fool?" George would've laughed if he wasn't bound to a chair in a murderer's basement, awaiting his sure death. "Gee, thanks."

"The numbers of the tarot cards the victims are killed by aren't decided by me." He pointed to a '0' written on the bottom. "It's the hour of the day I execute them. Or in your case, capture them. I've never held someone captive for so long. It's... exciting."

The fact that he was just a little science experiment for a murderer made him want to vomit. A human life, treated with such disregard for someone's sick entertainment.

"How... do you know Nick?" He had to ask. The curiosity was too much to handle.

"He's been my 'dealer' for a while now." He brought his fingers up into air quotation marks. "I give him Moon Powder in exchange."

"And that is?" George had a slight idea of what it was. But he'd never heard of the name before.

"Drugs, of course. I make them myself!" He walked over to his table, dipping a finger in some kind of bowl and bringing it over to George's face. "The strongest powder Florida has ever had. And that's saying something."

He tried to avert his face from the blue dust coating the man's finger. There wasn't much room to move to, but he tilted his head as far sideways as it could go.

"Ah, not a fan, then?" The masked figure taunted, slipping his finger under his mask. "Your loss. A box of this is worth a human life, as you saw."

So he'd been traded to a murderer... by one of his friends... for a box of hallucinogenic powder. He felt sick to the core. On the off chance that he was able to get out of this place in one piece, he was going to snap Nick's neck himself.

That tiny chance was all that kept him going. If he somehow managed to get out alive, he had to get every bit of information about his captor to aid the investigation. The odds were, in every way, against him. Maybe the man could be reasoned with. There might have been a compromise that he would've accepted. George doubted that, though - the man was willing to kill himself over a delusional 'art show'.

"So. Tell me more, then."


	6. New Guest

George spent most of his time observing and talking to the man, trying to pry as much information out of him as possible. The task proved to be more difficult than he'd anticipated - the guy was surprisingly reserved for a psychopath.

There were also times when he wouldn't shut up, though, after he'd had a pinch of Moon Powder. He enthusiastically tinkered with various electrical objects at his workstation, humming a tune, as usual.

"What's that?" George asked, straining against his bounds to peek over his captor's shoulder. He caught a glimpse of a chain, buzzing with electricity.

The man didn't pay him much attention. Instead, he jotted down something in his notepad and tapped a few buttons on what looked like a control panel.

George cleared his throat. "Hey. What is that? You have me down here, the least you could do is entertain me."

Still no answer. The figure bent over the table straightened, though, and slowly turned to face him. There was something uneasy about how the light never fully illuminated him. It always hit him at odd angles. It wasn't right, how his shadow formed somehow differently on the ground under him, either.

Sometimes George would catch a glimpse of black blots speeding across the floor. They usually went away when he blinked, so he convinced himself he was going insane in captivity.

It wasn't an ideal explanation, but he felt that denial would be better than diving straight into why reality seemed to twist and warp around the masked psychopath.

The figure looked him in the eye. He was inhumanely still, not moving a muscle. George would've thought he was a statue if not for the hand he was spinning a wrench in.

"You do not interrupt me while I'm working." The guttural voice he'd heard on his first day in the basement had returned. "Understood?"

"Well, that's kind of hard when I'm literally stuck in your workplace, isn't it? Maybe you could-"

The shock collar remote held up in the man's hand made him instantly freeze. Smart mouthing a killer like some sort of movie character had sounded like fun up until that point.

" _Understood_?" He hissed through his teeth, menacingly hovering a finger over one of the buttons.

George nodded, swallowing his words. Seemingly satisfied, the man resumed his work.

The witty remarks had been his only way of coping, and that had been stripped away from him, too. He took the time while the man's back was to him to look at every nook and cranny he could turn far enough in his seat to see.

He craned his neck, struggling against the metal wrapped around his neck. The ropes weren't making this any easier, either.

The only new thing he could see was a mini fridge with a radio on it. What the radio was for, he couldn't tell, since any signal would be drowned out by the thick walls of the basement.

There was a knock on the door behind him. He couldn't turn far enough to see who entered the basement afterwards, so he stayed as still as possible not to make anyone suspicious.

"Hey hey! Got another one for ya!" George instantly recognized the voice. Sapnap came into his view, dragging what seemed to be a bodybag behind him. "Now, be careful with this one. It's a cop, knows how to defend himself."

The man walked over to the bag, unzipping a part of it and surveying the uncovered face carefully.

"That shouldn't be a problem. I've been working on a special toy." He gestured at the table, and Sapnap walked over with a gleeful smirk, grazing his fingers against the various objects laid out on the table. "It should help keep him... tame."

George could see the workstation more clearly now, without the man blocking the view. Various knives, tools, and metal objects. Nothing too special, except for the electric coil of chains. Sapnap grabbed it, the rings loudly clanking against each other as they moved.

"How come this thing isn't like... zip-zapping me right now?" He tossed the weight from one hand to another with a loud jangle. The echos bouncing off the basement walls made George want to claw his face off.

"I haven't yet activated it." The man took the chain from Sapnap's hands, pulling up a chair right in front of George. "Come help me set this up."

The two of them dragged the body out of the bag and onto the chair. The unconscious cop's head drooped down to the side.

George couldn't help but curiously watch. No one seemed to be paying him any mind, and he wanted to know what they were up to. After all, this was the first company he'd have down here besides his captors. He felt disgusted with himself for not feeling all that much remorse for the victim.

Once the body was set up, Sapnap bound his hands and legs to the chair, similarly to George. The masked man placed a stool next to the chairs, making sure it was well out of reach.

Sapnap seemed jittery. His fingers twitched every once in a while, and it seemed as if minor tremors were running down his body. He looked pale and his lips had tinted blue, as if he was freezing to death.

"So uh... Y-you got some of that stuff left, right?" He spoke with chattering teeth. His eyes momentarily darted to the shelves and back to the man as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

The masked figure nodded, walking over to the cabinets and retrieving a box. It was much smaller than what he'd brought out as a payment for George.

He wondered why he was worth so much. It's not like he was strong or resilient or anything - in fact, he was probably the worst lab rat anyone could have. A day of torture and he'd completely break.

Or maybe his captor knew that, and derived his twisted pleasure from tormenting his prey. He wondered what it'd be like to have the roles reversed - would he feel the same thrill of having a human fully at your mercy?

Sapnap lifted the lid off the box, checking if the payment was there. He dipped a couple of his fingers in, snorting the powder and smearing it all over his cupid's bow in the process.

His jitters seemed to calm down, and so did his demeanor. He lowered the lid, thanking the man and slipping out of the room, but not before shooting a sympathetic look George's way.

It was the first human emotion anyone had shown since his captivity had started, and it took him aback. How a simple facial expression had completely thrown him off balance was beyond him.

He surveyed the bounds on the cop's limbs. If the method used on the victims were indeed similar, maybe he could discover a flaw that he could use to his advantage.

The knots were thick, and the chains had been brought around the armrests several times, making it indestructible by bare hand. Which is exactly what the victims had.

The man made sure the cop had no weapons on him he could've used to his advantage, patting him down. It's not like he'd have found much use for a gun or a baton - his hands were tied down.

He walked over to the table behind the cop, pouring a few drops of different liquids into a small bottle. He topped it off with a thick black syrup. The consistency and color reminded George of the tar he'd been submerged in on his drug trip. He shuddered upon remembering how helpless he felt slowly being enveloped by the surroundings.

The masked man shook up the mixture, pouring it into a syringe. He walked over to stand behind the cop, injecting his neck with the liquid.

George couldn't help but feel grossed out. "What _is_ that?!"

The man took his time cleaning the needle and putting it away. He worked carefully, flawlessly. George could really start so see how not one bit of evidence had been left behind after a decade of crimes.

"Just a little something to wake him up." He turned around. "And when he does, we're going to play a little game."

George snorted. "Didn't exactly take you for a game type of guy." He immediately realized how wrong he was. This whole thing - the themed murder spree, the literal humans in the basement being kept as personal pets, the chemistry projects he brewed up. It was all a game to him. George could see it in how he was practically jumping up and down from excitement.

The smile painted in black over the white smooth surface in immaculate strokes just added to the unsettling enthusiasm. Since the cheery expression on the mask never faltered, George could never see the human emotions underneath. It made it harder to find the weak points and take advantage of them.

Blood slowly started to pool in the cop's slightly gaping mouth. George watched in horror as it started to drip down his lips and onto his clothes, leaving a smeared path on the way.

The man didn't seem to notice, since he'd turned back to the table as soon as he'd given the injection and was now tinkering with a metal object.

George decided to speak up. "Hey, uh... Is that supposed to happen?"

The man glanced over his shoulder, not bothering to stop what he was doing. He silently waited for an elaboration.

"The blood." George was unsettled. A little blood had started to drip from the cop's nose as well. "He's bleeding."

The man skeptically walked round the chair, standing in front of the cop. Upon seeing the red dripping down his chin, he cursed under his breath.

"Nick must have fucked him up pretty good while trying to catch him." He chuckled to himself as if he was retelling a harmless joke. "What a bastard. The meds I gave him must have caused throat bleeding."

He returned to his former position, hastily scribbling down something in his notepad. He grabbed a cloth, wrapping it around the man's face.

"That should stop it for a while before he wakes up." He tied a neat knot behind the head. "He'll have bigger things to worry about soon."

When the cop finally moved, George felt like he'd been waiting for hours in end. He wanted to know that there was someone truly alivee besides him there, in the same shoes. It was a selfish one sided sense of camaraderie, he thought.

The masked figure seemed to notice the shift in the cop's pose. He hefted a heavy box from his table down onto the floor with a clank of the objects inside and pulled up a stool to sit on.

"Now, dear guest..." George glanced up to see the man watching him. He touched the tips of his fingers together, eyes glinting with sick curiosity. "You'll get to have some fun of your own."


	7. Trial

George looked straight ahead at the man hovering over the cop. He silently watched as he spluttered and choked on the blood pooling in his mouth, the coughs making it pour out and down his body.

"What do you mean?" George asked, unable to take his eyes off the man, wheezing for breath against the mouth full of liquid.

A cloth was wrapped around his face. It didn't do much to contain the blood it was drenched and dripping with.

"This man's life is in your hands." The masked man grabbed a rusty dagger, ripping the cloth at the seams. The two blood soaked pieces fell apart, making their way to either side of the cop's face.

George stared at the panting man, struggling for air against his bloody nose. His breaths were labored and shaky. "What?"

" _You_ decide if he lives..." The figure placed his hands on the back of the chair, bringing up the knife to the victim's throat. "Or if he dies."

Tears were rolling down the cop's face, mixing with the blood. He had a glassy stare as he looked up at George with pleading eyes.

"Hey, man. Listen." George tried not to make the panic apparent in his voice. "I'm gonna keep you alive, okay? Tell me your name."

The cop drew in a few labored breaths, sobs wracking his body. "I-I h-have a family... Please, you can't do this. Please..."

"Listen to me. Hey. You're gonna see your family again, don't worry." George felt himself instinctively reach out to place a comforting hand on the man's shoulder, but he couldn't budge against the ropes. "Just... Just tell me your name."

"S-Scott."

"Alright, great. Listen to me, Scott." George tried to ignore the looming figure that had retreated to a corner of the room, watching his every move. "It's all gonna be fine, okay?"

He might not have been able to leave this place in one piece, but he'd be damned if he didn't get a father back to his family.

The masked man came over, observing their conversation. Gut-wrenching sobs filled the room, snot and tears running down the cop's face, washing away the blood.

"So. Tell me. What have you decided?" The man spoke, circling around the two chairs like a predator, cornering his prey. George did his best to keep his shoulders straight and look him straight in the eye. "Will you spare him, or let him die?"

"Of course I want to spare him, you asshole!" George spat out, immediately remembering the collar around his neck. "I mean... I'd like to spare his life. He has a family."

Scott's bottom lip quivered as he sniffled. Even through the tears, he seemed relieved. He drew in a big breath, mouthing a 'thank-you' with his eyes downcast.

The figure clicked his tongue. "Always so quick to judge, you humans. All it takes for you to feel sympathetic is a little bit of tears..."

George saw Scott whimper at the statement. He looked to the man as he stood uncomfortably close to him. He reached down, pulling up his chin with a finger to face him.

"And what if I told you, my dear guest, that this man was a serial rapist? A man who exploits his power to entertain his sick fantasies? A human in a position of authority, tasked with protection." He glanced over his shoulder at the whimpering man. "Instead, he reaps and plunders what isn't his. He pillages and tramples sacred territories with a badge proudly displayed on his chest."

"T-That's not t-true..." The man whispered, barely audible. George probably would've missed it if not for the complete silence in the room. His breath was hitched at the influx of new information entering his system.

"And what would I get out of lying, officer? I have nothing at stake here - you're dead meat at a snap of my fingers. You, on the other hand..." He tilted his head, inching closer to the cop. "You have everything on the line."

For a moment, the only sound in the room was Scott's choked gasping, which slowly faded as complete silence overtook the basement. A question lingered in George's head that he had to ask.

"How do you know that?" The 'delivery' had been sudden, and the murderer had barely enough time to set up the body, let alone speak to Sapnap about the man's lore.

The masked man held up a leaflet he'd stowed away in the body bag. "Nick writes out a little backstory every time he chooses a person to bring to me. This one had a particularly grizzly one..."

He danged the piece of paper in front of the cop's nose. The heartbreaking sobs had been replaced with a silent anger, seething and bubbling.

"Let me go right the fuck now, you psychopath!" He jerked towards the figure leaning over him that didn't even budge. "I have a fucking family! You're going to rot in jail when I tell everyone who you are! In _jail_! Ya hear me?!"

A small, genuine laugh escaped the masked man's lips, gradually increasing into a booming laugh as the threw his head back. He contendedly sighed, gripping the cop's hair to pull his head back.

"Oh, how adorable. You think your family wants you back? You think _anyone_ wants you back?" The words thick with venom seemed to be a slap in the face for the cop, making him go red with rage. "You think your 8 year old daughter wants you back? You ruined her life. You scarred her and abused her."

The cop froze. "How-"

The grip on Scott's hair tightened, forcing him to choke back his words as the man continued.

"Back at the precinct, you hold your position over everyone's heads. You see it, don't you? How they look at you with fear in their eyes. You _love_ it, actually." He leaned in closer. George could see Scott's knuckles turning white from gripping the arm rest. "I bet when they discover you've gone... missing... They'll rejoice in knowing there's an opening for your position, won't they?"

The man dug his nails deep into Scott's scalp, almost ripping his hair out. Pained screams filled the room, immediately dying down into a muffled plea when he was gagged with the bloody cloth that had been covering his face.

George spoke up for the first time in a while. "You're one to question someone's morality. You've killed hundreds of people and you're shaming what, a corrupt cop?"

The man replied without taking his eyes off the cop. "When a man rapes dozens of women, alongside with his 8 year old daughter, beats and kills citizens he swore to protect on his whim... You think he deserves life?"

"That's not what I-"

"No, listen closely." He finally straightened, letting go of the hair. George watched him turn around and stand unsettlingly still as he spoke. "When a parasite like this sinks its claws into a perfect society... Wraps his poisonous viny tendrils around the tree of prosperity and joy... It needs to be exterminated. That's what I do. And that's what _you_ should do. Not everyone has the courage."

George stayed quiet. As much as he hated the psychopath, he had to agree. The man sitting across from his was a horrendous monster, guilty of unspeakable crimes. Disgust was probably evident on George's face, since the man let out a satisfied hum.

"Ah, finally, you see my point." He walked over to his workstation, poring over the various tools. "Now, what's your favorite method of execution?"


	8. Execution

"My favorite... what?"

The man kneeled down to lay out a case of intricate tools on the stool, occasionally picking one up and examining it. An ornate dagger instantly caught George's eye, with swirling embellishments running up and down its hilt and blade.

The staring didn't go unnoticed, since it was carefully separated from the rest and brought closer to George, who instinctively flinched back as much as his restraints allowed him to.

George's breath hitched when the knife was lowered to the ropes on his hands, the thick coils instantly falling apart with just a single swift movement.

"Good choice." The man pulled the dagger back, cleaning it with a surprisingly spotless washcloth from the toolkit. "Extremely sharp, not to mention valuable. We'll make great memories with this."

He seemed to get lost in his own world as he gently caressed the knife. If George didn't know any better, he'd think the guy was really into collecting weapons. He was probably right, although people who collect them usually don't go on murder sprees.

Scott's cough snapped them both out of their train of thought. The man's fingers abruptly halted on their way down the delicate carvings on the blade.

"So, aren't you gonna let me go now?" George couldn't help but look at the cop while the masked figure remained kneeling, poring over the dagger. "The time's ticking, son. The more time you hold me here for, the more trouble you get in."

Another booming laugh met the demands. George didn't entirely like the idea of worldlessly submitting to the psychopath, but at least he had the brains not to talk back when he was not in the position of power. The cop, however, didn't seem to realize that, constantly having held that place over others throughout his life.

"You know, Scott..." The man twirled the dagger with his gloved fingers. "For a cop, you're surprisingly bad at negotiating."

George watched as the toolbox was stowed back away and the surgical table from the corner of the room was wheeled to the center.

He tried to pick at the ropes bounding the rest of his limbs with his one free hand, but to no avail. The dagger was entirely out of reach and the short intervals of time when the man's back was turned wasn't enough to really study the knots, either.

Scott's shouts suddenly filled the room, causing the figure to turn around."Hey, the kid's tryna escape!"

George shot the man a look of disbelief. As much of a jerk the guy was, he hadn't expected to be ratted out by him, considering they were more or less in the same boat.

"That's right, kiddo. If you ain't gonna help me, I ain't gonna play nice, either."

George cursed under his breath as the man walked over and stood between them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. Scott had a smug grin on his face as the figure leveled his gaze with him.

"Dear guests..." The hand was drawn back from George to make its way down to the stool. The man never broke eye contact as he leaned down and picked up the ornate dagger. "I would be oh so terribly sad if something were to happen because you weren't playing nice."

"I was helping you, you-"

"Quiet!" The grip on Scott's shoulder tightened, making him hiss out in pain. "As I was saying before you crudely interrupted me... Snitching isn't a very polite thing to do. Didn't your mom teach you that?"

The cop squirmed against the restraints, trying to break free. George thought that even if he managed to lunge at the psychopath, the chances of him winning were close to zero. He was unarmed, and this was the murderer's lair. It'd be like fighting a shark with your bare hands in the middle of an ocean.

A hand wrapped around Scott's throat, ceasing his attempts. The former angry words were replaced with labored breaths as he struggled for air.

"Oh, that's right." The man continued. "As soon as you were of legal age, you falsely reported her to the insane asylum and got her taken away to _rot_."

It seemed as if Scott wanted to object, but a huff was all that escaped his lips.

"Slow and excruciating _torture_! You put her in a madhouse, you sick animal. Your own mother." The figure slowly reached up to pull off his mask, causing the cop to fly into a flurry of panicked thrashes. "And for what, Scott? The family house? You couldn't wait to inherit it, so you sped things up a bit."

The grip on the throat was loosened to let Scott talk. After drawing in a few shaky breaths, he widened his eyes in pure, unfiltered fear. "What the fuck _are_ you?"

George wished he could see from the cop's perspective, but the man's back was turned as he leaned over the chair across from him. He wondered what it was that changed the usually arrogant expression to that of sheer terror.

The figure put the mask back on, immediately getting to work. George watched the man across from him sit wordlessly, blankly staring off into space with a gaping mouth.

Whatever it was behind the mask, it was enough to traumatize a cop with years of experience in gruesome fields. It would have to be something so terrible that George couldn't even comprehend it.

The man whipped up a combination of strange liquids in a small glass jar, passing it to George. "Mix."

He himself continued fussing over the workstation, neatly laying out a set of intricate tools on the surface. It seemed like George wouldn't be commanded again, so he complied in fear of what would happen if he didn't.

He grabbed the metal stick sitting up in the jar, swirling it around with his free hand. After deeming the work satisfactory, he clenched and unclenched his sore fingers, finally getting to appreciate how the numbness seeped away, letting him regain full control of his joints.

The limbs that were still tied down ached even more, however. He uncomfortably shifted in his seat in an attempt to soothe the dull pain, but it felt as if an invisible force was weighing down on him.

A few moments passed until the man turned around again, picking up the jar with a satisfied hum. He poured the contents into a needle, some of the thick liquid oozing down the sides of the tube.

Scott had been mostly still ever since their little "talk", rooted to his seat. He made no attempts to move, the only sign of life hinting that he hadn't turned into a stone statue being the occasional twitch that darted across his face.

As unsettling as the sudden change of demeanor was, it seemed to work in the psychopath's favor. There were little to no attempts of resistance as the cop was hauled up and strapped to the surgical table.

The man wasted no time fastening his arms and legs down into makeshift clasps attached to the sides, closing the locks with a sharp click. He wheeled up a chair for himself that allowed him to sit at an angle that overlooked the scene.

George couldn't see the eyes behind the mask, but he could tell how they would most likely be glinting with a sick sense of curiosity and glee. The psychopath had acquired a new toy to play with in his lair, and the anticipation hung thick in the air.

"Right." The man finally spoke out, voice gruff from concentration. "I want to make this slow." He spared a quick glance from his victim at George. "And a fun show for our guest, of course."

George readied himself for a sickening scene. He'd seen a handful of movies that had made him queasy, all usually filled with various forms of torture and body horror. But if he was to get through this without being covered in his own vomit, he'd need to steel his stomach.

He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling. After a few failed attempts to do a breathing exercise to calm himself, he gave up and sat in silence.

No sounds came.

No screams, no cries, no pleas, nothing.

He cracked his eyes open just enough to see the man expectantly staring back at him with his arms folded over the table. It was unusual - how a murderer about to take a life could behave with such poise, George thought. But so far all the man had done was surprise him, so it wasn't entirely out of character.

It seemed the execution wouldn't start unless George was fully present and invested. His path to squirming out of the uncomfortable situation was cut off. The man had really wanted him to witness the scene that was about to unfold. George eyed the ornate dagger clutched in his fingers, awaiting the slow and excruciating torture to begin.

And in a blink of an eye, it happened. The psychopath's hand shot up, only to come down with full force into the cop's body with a sickening squelch. The first blow - the one George had expected to ease them into the grizzly scene, like some messed up murder foreplay - had been a devastating one.

Instant cries and gurgled screams followed, the pain in the victim's voice realer than anything George had ever heard before. True shrieks of terror. He couldn't comprehend the realness of it all.

Once the wails died down into muffled whines as the cop struggled against the blood pooling in his mouth, the hand gently eased off the hilt of the dagger, although leaving it in place.

The man spun his chair around, momentarily standing up to rummage through his boxes and return with a sledgehammer in his hands.

George's stomach dropped. Ideas of what could possibly happen trickled through his head, none of them any better than the former.

He didn't have much time to imagine the outcomes, though, as the masked man hoisted it up to level it with Scott's face, lifting up his chin to look him in the eyes.

"Right..." He tilted his head in some sick imitation of curiosity. "I wonder how much pain _this_ will cause." After a short hum, he added. "Probably not enough to make up for all of it you've caused others. But it's a good starting point."

George cringed as the sledgehammer was brought up in the air above Scott's face despite his gut wrenching pleas against it.

Silence.

Right.

George had to actually watch the 'display'. A satisfied noise met his open eyes.

The tool was slammed down onto the cop's face with a crunch. The body was angled a little higher than where George was sitting, but he could see how the blood flowed and glistened under the dim lighting.

Surely that was enough force to kill a human, George thought, but the man didn't seem quite satisfied.

"A resilient one, aren't we, Scott?" A muffled laugh from behind the mask. "I wonder what you're fighting so hard to live for."

So the man _hadn't_ died. He probably didn't have long to live, though, considering his bashed in skull and a gaping stomach wound.

George watched the figure looming over the bleeding body dip his fingers into the blood. After a few moments of hovering there, they disappeared behind the mask with a sickening slurping noise. They came back spotless, so George could only assume what had happened.

The man didn't seem satisfied, though. He cupped his hands, collecting the trickling blood in his palms, hungrily devouring it all it one go while smearing a big amount on his mask in the process.

All George could hear in the room were inaudible noises coming from the cop, mostly consisting of gurgles and splutters, and the licking of fingers.

He couldn't bear to keep watching any longer. He ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the mental image of the gory scene.

The man was too caught up in his activities to notice that George hadn't been looking, letting him have a few moments of relative peace.

A loud metallic clang jolted him up soon after. "Don't doze off, the grand finale has yet to take place." The man was leaning over the surgical table, peering at George as he spoke. "I could even let you pick the final execution method as a party favor."

The glee in his voice rubbed George in all the wrong ways. Shivers ran down body, the kind that usually appear before a mental breakdown. He did his best to hold it all in. If he was to show any signs of weakness, he'd be officially defeated in his captor's eyes. He couldn't have that.

Instead, he spat on the ground in front of his feet. "Go to hell."

"Tsk. Feeling a little catty today, aren't we? Alright. I'll pick one out myself."

He hung his head low as a wet sound of what he guessed was a blade into flesh sounded throughout the room, bouncing off the walls in dull echos. Then another. And another.

It went on for a while, and eventually the clasps came undone. He could only see the feet of the man as he dragged the cop off the table and back into the body bag.

After a few moments of shuffling, everything was quiet. The pair of feet came closer to him instead as a hand below his chin lifted his face up.

"You don't have to be so rude. You're a big source of inspiration for me, you know." His voice was unfiltered and straightforward, with no trace of the former slyness. "Open your eyes and look at me, George."

His name coming from the man's mouth sent goosebumps down his body and he opened his eyes, eager to obey the command for reasons unknown.

George's eyes creased in disgust. "What do you expect me to say? You just _killed_ a man." He glanced at the figure towering over him bathed in shadows. "I don't have sympathy for someone like you."

His words wavered and broke at the last sentence. Frustrated tears threatened to roll down his eyes, and he did his best to hold them back.

Showing weakness was the last thing he was going to do around the psychopath who seemed to thrive off distress. The humiliation and the hopelessness he felt were overwhelming, weighing on him heavily.

The pressure was too much to withstand, and his vision blurred as the first tear rolled down his cheek. He hated crying in front of people, let alone his captor, but he lost control after the first drop fell.

There was little he could do to restrain his shaking shoulders and choked sobs, drawing in short breaths in an attempt to calm himself.

The man was still hovering over him, watching him without a word or even a little shift in his position. This was all a show to him - a sick display he was getting off on.

George cursed under his breath, trying to wipe away his tears with his one free hand. With a weak inhale, he closed his eyes to detach himself from the surroundings.

The attempt turned out to be futile as George felt a gentle touch on his face. A gloved hand, resting on his cheek, wiping away the tears with a thumb.

It was cold, and lifeless, and extremely off. It was everything a human touch could not have been, and yet it was. Red flags popped up in George's vision everywhere, begging him to just flee and get away from the source.

He jerked his head away, finally opening his eyes. The former sense of vulnerability had disappeared, leaving only repulsion behind. His heart was pounding, fury throbbing in his veins. "Don't touch me!" He spat the words out, with no concern of what would follow his behavior.

The gloved hand was lifted off his face to hover an inch above his cheek instead. "Better?"

The man was teasing him. Taunting. He knew perfectly well what the power dynamic was, and he knew that he was holding the reins at the moment. The unmoving smile on his mask only made him look more smug.

George turned his hand under the ropes, clenching his fist tight. The friction made his raw skin burn even more, but he didn't care. It was enough to distract him from the anger threatening to make him implode on himself.

"Don't do that." The man reached down to place his hand on the ropes, immediately halting all movement. The touch was gentle, but firm. "You'll hurt yourself."

George grit his teeth, cringing at the cold touch against his fingers. The figure didn't seem to notice as he brought the ornate dagger down to the bindings, ripping them at the coils. "Give me your hands."

George looked at his freed hand, the skin around the wrist red and burning, then at the outstretched hands of his captor.

The demand had been unexpectedly soft, yet impossible to disobey at the same time. It seemed as if the man's words had a power over him, forcing him to follow his every whim and request.

His hands being untied gave him a lot more room to move around in his chair. He slouched over, placing his hands into the man's. From this proximity, he could make out all the little details of the mask.

The first thing he noticed struck him as the most bizzarre - the mask had no eye slits in it, rendering it useless for someone who actually needed to see. But the murderer couldn't have been blind - he'd looked at the labels on his bottles, read the backstory leaflet, not to mention moved around with such grace and little effort.

Fingers immediately wrapped around his hands as soon as he reached out, gently enveloping them in a comforting hold.

Or, it would have been comforting, if not for the dreadfully frozen touch. The undried specks of blood from the fabric of the gloves smudged against George's skin, making him wonder how much had rubbed off onto his face from earlier.

"Please..." He spoke in between labored breaths, dread seeping through his façade. "Just... Leave me alone. Please. Just let me go. I swear I won't-"

"No."

George paused for a split second. The answer had been straightforward and to the point. He wasn't really expecting a different answer, either. So why had it caught him so off guard?

"Just... No?" He threaded his fingers in between the man's, squeezing in a pleading manner. "I beg you. I'll forget this ever happened."

The face in front of him tilted to the side in innocent confusion. "Forget?" He inched closer, dipping down to stand on his knees. "That would be ridiculous. _I_ wouldn't want to forget our time together, personally."

George didn't care for the twisted words of affection coming out of the mouth of the person he loathed so much. He wanted to lunge at the throat in front of him, squeezing all the life out of the body until it was just an inanimate object.

An object, like he'd been made to feel in this basement. Helpless and cowering in the presence of a ferocious beast.

But he couldn't do that yet, not while the risk was so high. He needed to strike when least expected, after he'd gained his captor's trust. And that's exactly what he planned to do.

"Me neither." He mentally prepared himself for the nauseating words about to come out of his mouth. "I... You've made me see there's a lot... more to life. Your art is beautiful."

The figure perked up in excitement upon hearing those words, the hold around George's hands tightening.

He tried to force out the words that seemed to stick to his tongue, refusing to leave and grace his own ears. "I... Genuinely think we could make a great team."


	9. Justice, Reversed

The man's fingers slipped from George's as he straightened, walking around the freshly vacated space. He paced around to open and close the cabinets lining the shelves, seemingly searching for something.

George wondered how he could even navigate all this clutter. Metallic scraps, electrical components, chemicals, equipment... The guy had had a shock collar in his supplies, for god's sake, there's be no telling what else he had just laying around.

The figure pulled a dusty wooden crate out of one of the shelves, placing it on his table and patting some of the grime off. He pulled out a human skull out, laying it to the side to give him room to rummage.

George didn't even flinch. It'd be ridiculous to, after seeing what he'd seen. That had possibly been the tamest thing that could've come out from the box.

He heard a thoughtful hum coming from the masked figure from the other side of the room. "So you want to know more about me, huh?"

George uncomfortably shifted in his seat. His hands had been released from the bindings, but his feet were still tied tight. He was never left out of eyesight long enough to mess with the ropes, so his former plan of studying the knots and making his escape was out of question.

"I mean, yeah. Since I'm your _guest_ and all..." George tapped his fingers on top of the armrests as he watched the man dangle what looked like a human tooth necklace over the box. "I wanna know what you're like."

The man just let out a quiet chuckle. It would've passed right by George if it had come from someone else, but hearing it come from his captor made chills run up and down his spine. It was strange how everything the man did managed to come off as disturbing.

"Well, I believe, dear guest..." The man seemed to finally find what he had been looking for, hefting up a metal bowl shaped thing. "That a person is a reflection of their childhood. A mirror of their experiences, if you will."

He gently laid the object to the side, returning the box back to its former spot on the shelves. George took the time to pick at the ropes with his nails, but he immediately pulled back as the man turned around. He seemed to be too engrossed in his activities to notice, though, fidgeting with the gadget.

George leaned down, taking his time pulling at the coils that stayed tightly woven in their place. There seemed to be multiple layers of it, and it made him wonder just how sharp that dagger had been to cut through them like butter. If he could locate it once he somehow got free, it'd come in as a handy self defense weapon.

He slid a fingernail in between the ropes, trying to move it around to loosen the grip. But to no avail. He'd have to come up with another plan of escape.

Maybe once he'd gained enough trust he'd be allowed to wander around freely. It was a long shot, and definitely not a chance an experienced murderer was going to take with all the weaponry laying around, but it seemed to be George's only chance.

He just needed to get buddy-buddy with a deranged psychopath in a matter of months - or weeks, depending on how long it took for him to complete the full set of murders.

The deck of cards, laying in a pristine box on the shelves. He pondered the emotional value it had to the man. The attachment had been clear from the time he'd been introduced to the major Arcana, sentiment clearly showing through the otherwise steely voice.

"Ah, finally." The man picked up the metallic object and turned around to George. He could barely contain his excitement, bouncing on his feet. "I have to say, dear guest... It's unusual for me to open up like this."

He walked over, placing the curved shape over George's head. It fit like a helmet, instantly moving its clasps and locking in with a mechanical hiss.

"But I suppose it's fine. It's not like you'll be able to spill any of my secrets." He promptly walked away to return with a small bottle of swirling iridescent liquid. "This is a little concoction I've invented. Truly the stuff of the future. It allows me to transmit the thoughts in my head, directly to you."

The last thing George wanted was stray psychopathic thoughts wandering around his mind, but if that was what it took to gain his captor's trust, then he'd do it.

George stayed silent, so the man kept talking. "In this case, I'll be using it to share my memories. As I mentioned before, childhood is the core developing stage for any person, so that's where we'll start." He perked up, suddenly remembering something. "Oh, right. Have to assign a card to our lovely cop here."

He ducked down to slip a piece of paper out of the body bag. The leaflet he'd used, George assumed. He scanned it for a few moments, finally letting out a satisfied hum and folding it back into the cover.

George watched him carefully pick up the familiar box of cards and bring it over to his chair. He waited patiently as the man unhooked the clasps and picked up two cards after sifting through the deck for a few seconds.

"We have two choices. Numbering him by his time of arrival or the time of execution." He held up two cards with the numbers 8 and 10. "The first one is Justice, reversed. This one's quite fitting, in my opinion. Once flipped, it is the complete opposite of its former lawful and just nature. It's the embodiment of bigotry, severity, the abuse of law and power."

George nodded. He wasn't sure why the murderer wanted him to take part in labeling his victims. It was like being invited onto an exclusive art exhibition, only infinitely more messed up.

"Makes sense." He watched the gloved fingers dip down to drop the reversed Justice card back into the box.

"The Wheel of Fortune. The symbol of fortune and luck." The former excitement had completely dissipated from the man's voice. "Not quite fitting in this case. It's up to you, though. I'll let you pick this one. Host's favor."

George desperately wanted to go with the latter just to throw his little theme off. If he'd learnt one thing during his stay, it was that the psychopath never swerved from his word. He kept to his statements, which could be used in George's favor.

But he pondered whether throwing a wrench in the murderer's plan would be a good decision in the long run. His goal was to get the man on his side, not against him.

He hummed in fake consideration despite having had made up his mind in a split second after the inquiry. "The Justice card."

George couldn't see anything past the mask, but he was sure his captor's face had lit up with joy. He gently placed the box back on the filthy shelves, placing the bottle of iridescent liquid on the stool in front of the chair.

The fluid swirled and popped in its container like sparkling water. Although a lot more menacing.

"Good choice." He unscrewed the lid, throwing it to the side. "Now. Get ready, this might hurt."


	10. Traversing The Past

A sudden sense of fear crept up George's spine, paralyzing him. The way the man stood over him, holding the vial in front of his face, just didn't sit right with him.

It was a feeling he'd already had the bitter taste of multiple times during his "stay" at the psychopath's residence. The repulsion at the sick curiosity and glee of his captor that held the reins, and the disgusting powerlessness he felt every time.

But it wasn't the man that had thrown him off this time. It took him a moment to figure out, but he realized it was the promise of being able to tap into the murderer's thoughts. The experience of being in someone's head, reliving their memories.

He'd have been thrilled, if he wasn't so terrified. The man paid him no mind as he pulled out a rusty pair of scissors. He raised his arm high, leveling it with his head, and plunged down into his own arm.

A choked gasp escaped George's lips, a mix of confusion and shock. Thick dark blood splattered out from the wound as soon as the scissors were pulled up, completely drenching the man's gloves and sleeves.

"Ah. That's a little more than I needed." George couldn't help but stare with his mouth agape at how nonchalant his captor sounded for someone who'd just driven a pair of rusty blades into their own wrist. "Well, a little extra blood never hurt anyone."

In what unholy world that statement was true, George wasn't sure. But the man sounded so confident in his own words that he didn't dare say a word.

The shock slowly wore off, and dread crept in to settle in the pit in his stomach the little display had left. He contemplated what was about to come as he watched the masked figure pull out a container and collect all the blood that poured out of his gaping wound, not missing a single drop.

"Alright, that should be enough." He wrapped a filthy towel tight around the cut, stowing the box of blood away onto one of the cluttered shelves. "Now. Time for the procedure. I'll-"

"Wait." George dug his fingernails into the armrests to calm his jittery nerves. "What exactly does this... procedure entail?"

The man ignored his question, taking the vial of liquid and dropping a little bit of blood into it. The iridescent fluid instantly foamed, darkening into a menacing black.

"It's rude to interrupt." He said, finally. "You'll find out soon enough, George."

Hearing his name froze him in his place. All he could do was sit and wait now. It wasn't like he had any leverage over the situation - he was quite literally tied down to his spot.

He watched the man walk over as he scraped at the armrests at his either side. It did nothing to calm his nerves, his heart pounding faster and faster with every step of distance that was closed between them.

Finally, everything went quiet. The bottle was lowered down to his mouth and tilted to the side.

George had to open his mouth. He _had_ to obey to gain trust, for his life's sake. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it, as if his muscles had a mind of their own.

That didn't seem to bother his captor, however, since he pried his lips apart with a finger and poured the liquid down George's throat.

It was bitter and cold, just like how he imagined battery acid to taste. The aftertaste it left wasn't any better, either. His tongue was burnt and irritated.

The fingers in front of him reached up to flick a small lever on the side of the headset. "It should be kicking in any moment now. Just lay back and try to relax."

Try to relax. Easy to say for the person who wouldn't be doing the experimental memory travel thing. George wasn't really sure what to call it.

The man took a seat on a chair nearby, crossing his legs and intertwining his fingers. The pose reminded George of the stereotypical creepy therapist in a horror movie, although that wouldn't be quite off from the reality. He really _was_ in a horror movie. The worst one he'd seen so far.

If only there was a button somewhere, an off switch to just blank the screen and escape without actually escaping as the character. He eyed he various sharp objects on the shelves, then the unlabeled chemicals in small jars lining the cabinets. Perfect for ending a life, but was he willing to do that?

Suddenly, intense pain overtook his senses, blinding him and filling his vision with endless white. Then hot red, and finally - black.

He hadn't even realized how loud he'd been screaming until he stopped when it started to fade away. His throat was raw and sore now, just like his tongue.

The only after effect that persisted was the fact that he was completely blind, plunged in pure black. He tried to reach out with his fingers, but they didn't move, as if firmly glued down to the armrests.

All he could do was let out a desperate sob that was met with a cold hand on his face. The fabric of the glove on his skin felt ten times more amplified and intense, making him want to flinch back. But he couldn't.

"What you're experiencing right now is the first time effect of taking the drug I gave you." A booming voice seemingly came from all around him, and from inside his head at the same time. The echoes from the words bounced around the inside walls of his skulls, replaying again and again until full distortion. "It should wear off in a few moments. The blood I dropped in will do its trick soon. Just try to relax for me, alright?"

Suddenly the scene faded from black to a beautiful day, suddenly urging him to shield his eyes from the sun. He managed to move, although not really.

It was a bizzarre feeling - being able to move only in his head. He felt his muscles twitch, but his hands remained in their place in the real world.

His hands in his head, however... moved to cover his eyes from the blistering rays of light. The water below his feet rippled in cascading rhythms as the voice spoke again.

"Tell me what you see, George."

It was difficult to describe. A blank, cloudless sky, invasive blinding sun rays, and a puddle at his feet. "I-I dunno. I'm outside..."

The hand on his face moved to caress his cheek almost comfortingly. It _did_ help that he had the touch to ground him in reality of the actual world, though.

"Try to imagine a fire for me. Burning in a fireplace. You're sitting on a couch, and there's someone next to you." The hand shifted to tuck a stray strained of hair behind George's ear. "It's raining outside. Try to think of the sound of the raindrops hitting the window."

George did as told. It felt as if the world he was in was sentient, obeying his whim and morphing into the scene that was described. The result seemed specific, with details that he _hadn't_ thought up. It seemed it had actually been pulled from real memories.

"Now, describe what you see to me, George." The cold fingers slowly trailed down the side of his face to his cheekbone. They acted as an anchor to pull him to reality, George assumed.

"I see a... fireplace. And a woman, sitting next to me. Holding a book? She's reading." George looked around at his surroundings for more things to describe. "We're on a green couch. There's a dog at my feet. I'm... I'm holding a knife. It's the same dagger as the one you, uh, used."

"Perfect. You're in the day after my tenth birthday. That was a birthday gift from my mother." The fingers pulled off, leaving him fully submerged in the memory. "One of my favorites. Just remember not to swerve too far from the scene... I've seen some things you wouldn't be able to handle. Don't go searching for trouble."

So George's assumption had been correct. He could search the memories, like an archive full of files of days and core experiences.

The warning struck him as oddly threatening. It was a power move, telling him that things he had experienced would be too much for George. He was tempted to defy the order, but not at the moment.

All he could do now was go with the flow of the memory. There was nothing holding him back to the real world and he fully sunk into the scene.

________

He was a little boy, sitting next to his mother in front of a crackling fireplace. Soft flakes of snow were piling up into a thick white blanket on the pavement, twirling and dancing on their way down.

The windows were foggy, making it hard to see outside. He turned his eyes back to the book his mother was holding, then back to his dagger. His attention had wandered away from his mother's lesson, so he tuned back in before she could realize.

"-ing the end. And that's why you always strike the head when fighting with a hammer, dear." His mother closed the book, laying it to the side. "Any questions, my little clay boy?"

He twirled the dagger around in his hands, trying to balance it on the tips of his fingers as he spun it round and round. He'd been getting better at doing weapon tricks, just not so much at actually using them to kill.

"No, mom." He abruptly ceased the movement, remembering something. "...Actually, why do you always call me clay?"

His mother let out an eloquent laugh as she gently placed her long manicured fingers on his cheek. "Because you're so easily moldable and obedient, like clay. Also brittle and weak, just one drop being enough to shatter you. It's quite suitable, isn't it?"

He breathed out a huff of air, tightening his mouth in dissatisfaction. "I-I guess..."

She continued, voice sticky and sweet as if she was cooing at him. "I think we've finally found your name! Aren't you excited?"

He _was_ excited. He'd been chasing after the promise of a real name at the age of ten, and it had finally arrived. After being nameless for so long, he cherished having something that was really _his_ at long last.

"Your new name will be Clay." She tapped her fingers on his skin. "Oh, for god's sake, try to look a little more excited, dear, would you?"

He snapped out of his thoughts, leveling his gaze with the woman sitting next to him. She had a fake warm smile plastered across her face, but it was the best as the expression was going to get. At least it was better than her mood back at the warehouse...

The warehouse. Another core memory. He swung his feet in the air, his legs being too short to reach the floor from the couch.

But that wasn't him. Somewhere far away, another conscience told him not to drift off too far, to heed the warning of the man. The real him.

Was he about to follow orders like a blind sheep? He'd never been the one to obey the whim of a stranger, let alone one he loathed so much. So if the instructions had been to stay in the lane and not tap into other memories, then he was going to do the exact opposite.

The warehouse. Dimly lit, grey concrete walls and floor. Thin streaks of light pouring in through the broken glass of the tiny windows lining the walls. The fire fizzled out and he stood up from the couch to find himself standing in the middle of a dark room, sandwiched in between huge cardboard boxes and scrap metal.

A man laying at his feet, twitching and bleeding. George- or rather, Clay, jumped back from the hand reaching out to grab his ankle.

"Please..." The raspy voice spoke from beneath him, struggling against the mouthful of blood. "You're a kid... I beg you, I have a family. I have no idea what's going on, but please let me go. I won't say a thing."

A boot pressed against the man's chest. Clay looked up to see his mother, brandishing a mallet. She looked at him expectantly, holding out a small knife to him laying on the palm of her hand.

"Go on, dear. Land the final blow."

The instruction had been short. Precise. Detailing exactly what she wanted him to do, yet he was confused and terrified.

Tears streaked down the man's face, falling onto the grimy concrete floor. He wheezed and sobbed and begged, but it all landed on their deaf ears.

His mother's lips were starting to twist into a grimace. "Are you hesitating?" She pressed her boot even farther down onto the man's chest, making him yell out in pain. "Pathetic. You're even weaker than I thought."

In a blink of an eye, she raised her mallet, bashing the man's skull right in. Clay fell to his knees, cradling the small knife in his hands like his only escape.

Blood had splattered all over his face from the impact, running down into his gaping mouth. A metallic, coppery tang overtook his taste buds, making him gag.

A core memory. His first taste of blood.

He felt something cold wrapping around his arm, but there was nothing there. An invisible force tugged on him, pulling him from into reality.

_________

George gasped for air as if emerging from a body of water. It _had_ felt like drowning in a way, having been suffocated by the invasive thoughts and the graphic imagery.

A figure was crouching in front of him, gazing up at him expectantly with the blank smiley face for a mask.

George had to take a few moments to gather his bearings. He had to remember not to reveal he'd wandered away from the original memory.

"You took your sweet time. So tell me..." He pulled his cold fingers away from George's skin. "What did you see?"

It wasn't difficult to distinguish the clear pride and excitement in the man's movement. Everything from how he held himself to the way he barely hid it in his words, George could tell the memory held a special place in his heart.

He bit the inside of his cheek, thinking of how to word his thoughts. "I... Uh... Your mother. She was teaching you about a... technique." A grizzly murder method is what it was, but he was sure the psychopath couldn't tell the two apart even if he tried. "And I learnt your name."

The man perked up, balancing on the tips of his feet as he looked up at him with poorly contained awe. "Is that so? Say it."

"What?"

The man repeated himself, although a little impatiently. "Say my name, George." He gripped the armrests of the chair, hoisting himself up to an eye level.

It'd been an unusual request, but easy to comply with. After another split second of hesitation, he obliged. "...Clay."

The man was practically radiating joy at that point. It threw George a little off.

"Great! Amazing." He suddenly stood up and started pacing around the room. "Now we formally know each other. Splendid."

"Couldn't you have... I dunno, just told me your name from the get go?" The man halted and turned his head to look at George. "Without the whole memory thing. I feel like that was a bit of an overkill-"

"Where's the flavor in that?" Clay pulled up a chair to sit in front of him. "And you have to admit, this was far more entertaining that a dull introduction."

George wasn't sure what 'entertainment' meant in the psychopath's dictionary, but being forced to drink a strange concoction mixed with blood and wear a creepy headset sure wasn't his definition.

Although, he had to admit, the way they'd done it had way more flair. Still a ways off from what he'd call pleasant, but he had to suck up to gain trust.

"I get your point." He uncomfortably shifted in his seat, trying to get the dull ache out from his knees.

The man slightly shifted his head as his eyes trailed the movement. "Are you uncomfortable?"

George wasn't sure what to make of the question. There wasn't even a slight trace of emotion he couldn't pinpoint, yet it seemed oddly sincere.

"I mean, yeah. I've been stuck in the same position for god knows how long."

A muffled chuckle came from behind the mask. "Time is relative, George. It doesn't matter."

George wanted to scoff. Tell that to the aching joints, he thought, but the pain dissipated and left as if there had been none to begin with.

"It's a construct." Clay continued. "A ridiculous, made up system that everyone seems to follow blindly. You need to learn how to tap into it and exploit it. Make it your playground."

George's mouth twisted in a mix of confusion and amusement. The gibberish spewing from the guy's mouth didn't make sense, but it sure as hell was entertaining to listen to.

"...And how, exactly, do you think I can... 'exploit' time?" He tried not to make the ridicule in his voice too obvious. "I'd love to know."

The man leaned over in his chair to close the distance between the two of them. "You've already done it, George. Do you mean to tell me you're so caught up in your surroundings that you haven't realized it?

"Realized what?"

"How you've morphed the concept claimed to be untouchable by so many. Tell me, how many times have you had to eat in the duration that you've been here? Drink? Sleep? Something as mediocre as go to the bathroom?"

George tried to replay the events of the period of time he'd been stuck down in the basement. Despite the absurd statement, it made sense. He _hadn't_ needed to do any of those things.

Everything he knew was being questioned. A last resort to cling onto graced his mind. "I did eat a pie, though."

The man let out a small laugh and stood up with a squeak of the chair over concrete.

"Try not to get too existential." George watched him smooth over his clothes and head for the door behind him, out of view. "It's not good for your brain."

With that, he exited, leaving only thick silence go hang over the room. George wasn't sure what he was supposed to take away from that conversation, but he was too overwhelmed from all the new information to care.


	11. First Kill

It can be a relief to think about alternate paths that branch off like twigs on a tree, intertwining and leading to different outcomes like threads on a cobweb.

It's easy to just forget and leave the present for a "what-if", albeit a bit disheartening when the bitter reality kicks in at the end of the daydream.

However, the thoughts of anything but his current situation were what kept George more or less sane throughout the whole life changing ordeal he'd gone through. He clung onto little snippets of pleasant memories and a naively hopeful future, desperately trying not to let it slip through his grasp.

All that could be heard in the room was the almost inaudible electrical whirring of the bare light bulb above his head. The imposing interior stayed in the back of his mind even with his eyes closed, constantly reminding him of how utterly screwed he was.

Clay had left a couple of hours ago - if his approximation had been correct - taking the body bag with him. George could only guess he was looking for a spot to dispose of it. Or rather, put it on display for all to see as a part of his twisted exhibition.

He _had_ mentioned he wouldn't be back until the next night. Their little talk had left him a little confused, to say the least, not to mention the newfound lack of trust he had acquired in his own sense of time.

But he figured he'd be dead anyway if he didn't take action whenever he could. These little gaps of time when he was left alone were all he had - tiny windows of opportunities to weasel through.

After a few moments of bracing himself, he reopened his eyes. There had to be something in the basement that he could use to his advantage, just like all the horror movies he'd watched. Hopefully this one would turn out fine, without the protagonist being murdered in cold blood.

Stacks of metal objects that seemed like junk to him, crates upon crates of weaponry and unusual torture devices, jars of murky liquids...

He heaved his weight to test the mobility of the chair. Much to his own surprise, it slung forward, nearly launching him face first into the damp concrete floor.

After fumbling and testing the range of movement the binds on his legs allowed him, he scooted over to the shelves to grab the metallic headset.

He hadn't been able to comprehend how the device worked, but looking at it now, there was only a single tiny lever on its side. It looked like something straight out of a cheesy 90's sci-fi movie. He lowered it onto his head, flicking the lever.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Just when he thought nothing was about to happen and he'd dreamt the whole memory part up, intense pain overtook every inch of his body. Invisible flames consumed his body, burning and scorching his skin, tearing the flesh off his bones and ripping his limbs at their joints. But of course, nothing was there.

Nothing helped numb it, not even digging his fingernails so hard into the armrests that they chipped and broke, and gritting his teeth until his jaws hurt.

It dissipated slowly and the familiar pitch black filled his vision. It wasn't as terrifying now, having experienced it, but he couldn't help but feel uneasy either way.

A single ray shone down at his feet, illuminating the field around him. Sweet birdsong and the soft shuffle of leaves as trees swayed around him bathed him in a calming aura, almost beckoning him to stay.

But he had a duty to accomplish. And saving his own life was higher up in his list of priorities than relishing imaginary nature.

The attempts had been effortless on his first try. He just had to think of a scene, an important event, and it'd come to life in front of his eyes.

What kind of memories would be the key to getting out of here? Sure, he could go through all of them and drift through every single day, but the spark on his fuse of opportunities wasn't too far off from detonating and blowing up his only chance at escaping.

His thoughts wandered to the warehouse, dark and unwelcoming as the little nest the murderer had set up for himself. He'd felt the young boy's emotions, experienced the swelling of his chest and the stinging of the tears at his eyes as he froze in place in his mother's presence. Even if Clay didn't want him to know, he'd seen it. Every single bit of the completely different human.

So what had prompted him to change? Surely his mother would've been a big influence. The pressure to end a life, and the aftermath it would've had.

George gathered all his brainpower, and focused on just three words - the first kill, - beckoning the invisible forces that had assisted him to pull up the memory.

Nothing came, however, no matter how much effort he put into it. He retraced his steps to go along with the procedure the psycopath had followed.

The liquid.

He grabbed a bottle of the same iridescent liquid from the cabinets, chugging it down in one go. To avoid any suspicion, he hid the empty bottle all the way in the back of the cabinet where it'd never be discovered, or when he was already out. Or dead, if he failed to play his cards right.

He closed his eyes again, finding himself standing in the same sunny field. The birdsong had quieted down now, and the soft breeze ruffling the green leaves had turned cold, wrapping around George in a chilly and sinister embrace.

He shuddered, suddenly eager to leave and delve into the memories. He repeated the three words over and over in his head, to no avail.

An unpleasant realization popped into his head. He'd skipped over a crucial step that he was definitely not looking forward to.

After a few moments of steeling his stomach, he slowly cracked the lid of a plastic container open. A strong, coppery scent immediately hit his nostrils. The blood.

He dipped his index finger into the liquid, the tip breaking the warm surface with a sickening sloshing noise.

The metallic smell wafted through the air, constantly reminding him of what he was about to do. He pulled the lid back down, placed the bloody finger on his tongue, and waited.

Nothing came. No sudden eruption of vomit or collapsion from nausea. Just an unpleasant taste that faded as soon as it had come.

He scooted his chair back to its former position, closing his eyes for the final time. The field popped back up, now fully hostile and menacing. All the greenery had left the scene - the leafless trees were now looming over the bare ground as George stood and peered up at their intimidating presence.

The quiet was overwhelming. Almost deafening. He chanted the three words over and over again, a vision forming in front of him.

He- or rather, Clay, was standing in front of a vanity mirror, wearing his usual mask. He seemed to be a little older than the warehouse scene, having gained a considerable amount of height and confidence in his stance.

It seemed to be a worn down bedroom, judging from the paint chipping from the vanity mirror and the torn floral wallpaper. A blurry object could be seen in the rear view, partially obscured by Clay's shoulders. He turned around, brandishing a familiar ornate dagger.

"So. I've heard you were a fan of rough play." The voice reverberated through George's throat as if he spoke them. "Even going as far to accidentally kill off your "playmates" and cover it up with daddy's money. Am I right?"

A man with red rashes all over his face - presumably from powder abuse - was chained to the foot of a dingy bed. "Man, I don't know what some fucked up creep like you would want, but just tell me and I'll give it to you. Money? Fame? Girls? Just name it, man."

George felt a little flicker of amusement in his chest. It wasn't his, but the emotions seemed to transfer from the vessel to him.

He twirled the blade between his fingers as he stepped closer to the cowering figure. A little trick he'd been practicing. "I think I asked for an answer, Tobias. Not your daddy's money."

The man hung his head in defeat, but that wasn't all it seemed to be. He was buying some sympathy and time to think. Clay had seen it all the time while watching his mother execute people.

"Listen, man... I didn't mean to, okay? It was an accident, on god, brother. You've gotta believe me, dude. I didn't mean to, I didn't-"

"Twelve court cases say otherwise." He interrupted, slamming a heavy binder down to the cracked floorboards as he towered over the crouching man. "All with sufficient evidence against you, with a sudden change of sentence. An expensive lawyer worth five figures swoops in and saves your ass time after time after time. Well, not anymore."

He watched the man curl up into a fetal position and carefully flip the pages of the binder as if he were detonating a bomb. Clay saw the eyes of a man who was in the wrong, but was so used to wiggling out of trouble that he was oblivious to the reckoning.

George felt chills run down his spine from the pride welling up in Clay's chest. The feeling of having control was exhilarating, pure power and domination coursing through his veins in a rush of emotions.

It had been way more empowering than he'd anticipated, experiencing the feelings secondhand from a chair while his captor usually hovered over him. But being in his shoes now, - quite literally - he hated to admit it, but he understood.

The satisfaction was in handing over the facts, sharp and straight to the point. The effect he had on the man with every turn of the dagger on top of his fingers and he sifted through case after case that Clay had dug up.

His mother wasn't too picky with her victims, deeming justification for her murders a little obsolete. 'Go hard or go home' had been her motto to live by throughout the years, which Clay deeply despised. If he was going to quench his thirst to kill, he was at least going to try to root out the parasites, the writhing vermins hiding deep in society's roots, polluting it and feeding off the righteous citizens.

"Alright, you got me." The man drew his hand back despite not having had flipped through all the pages. He already had to know what was on the remaining ones. "Guilty as charged."

"...You weren't charged."

A perplexed look met his statement as the man looked up at him with an eyebrow raised. "It's a metaphor, dude. Do you even know what those are?"

Clay drew his arms up to cross them against his chest. "Psh, of _course_ I know what a metaphor is. You just... used a very dumb one, that's all."

George let out a snort in amusement. It was pretty obvious this had been the first kill the guy had ever had, judging form how much he engaged in the victim's conversation. Like a stubborn schoolboy, coming after every word said against him.

"Sure ya do, man." Tobias stretched as much as the chains allowed him to, trying to put on a calm front. Clay might not have been very experienced at that point, but he could read people like an open book, and he could practically smell the fear. "So, can we negotiate?"

Clay threw his head back in a genuine laugh. " _Negotiate_? Absolutely not."

"Come on. I can make you _rich_! I can make you fucking famous! I can-"

"You mean, your _dad_ can do all those things." He kneeled down and placed the blade under Tobias' chin, angling his face up to get a better look. "Tell you what. If you convince me - actually, genuinely convince me - to let you go, without all the bullshit reasons, I will."

The eyes in front of him widened. George was pretty shocked at the bold statement as well, but honesty was the only reliable trait the psycho possessed, so the claim had to be genuine.

"I- I can give you a car! No, a mansion!" The panic was apparent in the man's voice as it rose and cracked like a prepubescent boy's. "A whole fucking town, you name it! Just name anything you want, man, I'll give it to you!"

"...Anything?"

George couldn't read any emotion. Clay was completely blank as he asked the question.

The man eagerly nodded, clutching onto him like a lifeline. "Literally anything, man!"

Clay tilted his head to the side. "All I want is to end your pathetic life, Tobias."

Silence hung over the room as the man's fingers loosened their grip and he leaned against the footboard of the bed, frustrated. He was about to speak up again, probably in an attempt to convince Clay to let him go in exchange for materialistic goods, when his eyes widened in shock and his mouth slackened.

It took George a moment to figure out, only realizing what had happened once the scene below him came into view. The dagger, buried deep into the man's guts.

A cracked breath as a few indescernible noises escaped Tobias' lips, and silence. Clay made sure to keep eye contact with the glossed over eyes as he slowly pulled the blade out, taking his sweet time to appreciate the shift in his first victim's features.

He pulled the blade up to his lips behind his mask, giving it a taste. George felt the tang on his taste buds, but through Clay's memories, it tasted different. Almost sweet and alluring, beckoning him for another taste.

Pained, wet breaths were all that filled the room as he unhooked the chains. Tobias made a pathetic attempt to scramble away, but a boot came down onto his head to pin him to the ground.

"You weren't planning on going anywhere, were you?" He leaned down to flip him over, burying his hand deep into the gaping wound with a wet sound. A pained scream met his invasive touch, begging him to stop. "But we're having so much fun."

The vision started to slowly dissipate a he retrieved handfuls of red goop torn from the inside of the man's stomach, topped with entrails, drenched in blood.

George awoke from the trance with an unusually fast heart rate, drawing in quick breaths. If he hadn't been fully convinced that he was dealing with a force not to be reckoned with before, he was now. His chances of survival were looking slim.


	12. Hunt

Clay roamed the streets and alleyways scattered throughout the city like veins, thrumming with life. The hours after midnight, when the clubs were bustling with activity were the best targets for when he was on the prowl.

This particular part of town wasn't too full of clean cut people who would work a 9 to 5. In fact, it was littered with addicts, searching for their next hit, a little boost to keep them going and pull them out of the hole they'd dug themselves into, only burrowing deeper into the ground.

He was no different. The telltale signs of powder abuse plagued him too, although not from the drug itself as much as from the thirst of the next kill.

The Phantom. Looming over him as he stepped into the side alley - an infamous club, known for the type of regulars that are usually up to no good. It was the type of place where if you weren't actively being pursued by the cops or on a watchlist somewhere, you looked out of place.

Or at least that's what it used to be a decade ago. Now it was filled to the brim with petty thieves and addicts.

None of the people strewn about the dim alley were up to his standards. The catch wouldn't be as rewarding without a thrilling hunt, as he'd experienced firsthand. He needed a motive, a push to make the swipe and haul his prize back to the basement.

The urge to end a life with his own hands was persistent, and had been a part of his nature for as long as he could remember, almost like a primal instinct. He'd gotten away with indulging in his habits, too. It wasn't that hard to, after training and learning all throughout his youth for the lifestyle he was leading.

A woman, hunched over on all fours, heaving after having too much to drink. He could pull her up, sling her over his shoulder and scurry back, and none would be the wiser in their current miserable states.

However, there was no thrill. No motive. Nothing that would tie her together with the rest of his collection. There was nothing thrilling about a drugged up college student desperately trying to cling onto consciousness.

Or maybe the young couple, cradling each other in their arms while being too shit faced from different substances to do anything. The familiar signs of powder abuse littered all across their skin - revolting rashes and burns all over their faces, red spots covering their necks and bodies - the usual.

But then again, he'd already added a couple to his collection, and originality was what he strived for. Especially with a guest witnessing the killings. Sub par craftsmanship wouldn't do.

Clay had come to spot the common characteristics all the addicts shared, even if they weren't conscious to give it away with the way they slurred their speech and stumbled over every other word. He'd had practice, way more than he'd ever voluntarily signed up for.

When he was fresh into the killing game, he'd taken a man to his laboratory to study. The first victim he'd ever kept for longer than a few hours, with quite an unusual appearance.

The jitters and the paranoid eyes, darting around every corner of the room as if to check for potential threats. He'd be fine while under the influence, but once the effects wore off...

All hell would break loose. The results varied depending on the severity of the addiction - it ranged from something as mild as shivers all the way to screaming and thrashing and demanding their next hit.

His gaze darted to a middle aged man eyeing him with a suspicious glance. He seemed more or less sober - at least, enough to spot that Clay was out of place. After all, he hadn't put all that much effort into disguising himself to try to blend in. He'd figured he wouldn't have needed to, considering the crowd he would've been dealing with.

And slowly, carefully, the man pulled his phone up, pointing it right at Clay. It was a poor attempt at discreetly recording. He was onto him.

His features seemed familiar. The same crooked nose and the flabby skin he'd spotted on the first cop assigned to his case, when he was still a relatively inexperienced criminal. Officer Reyes.

He'd been standing in the midst of a crowd nearby, pretending to be one of the curious onlookers at a crime scene. The disguise had been fool proof, yet all he'd done to blend in was take his mask off.

He watched as the cops desperately scrambled to find anything - just a single piece of evidence, but there was nothing. They gave their disappointing statement to the news outlet, the one that would be the first of many, and cleared out.

The first murder would always hold a special place in his heart. It was his first hit of thrill of the chase that would slowly turn into an addiction. An unquenchable thirst to hunt and sate it, only for it to come back in a few days. The satisfaction would last a week, if he was lucky, but before he knew it, he'd be out on the streets again, or having a fresh prey delivered right to him in his basement.

But something besides the sole urge to end a life - the animal instinct - prompted him to do what he did. A more unusual side, something he hadn't noticed in any of the other serial killers. He liked to call it artistic, how he propped the corpses up and set up a whole display, usually overlooked by frantic law enforcement.

They'd gotten better over the years at deciphering his signature. A smiley face. Something so simple, yet able to strike fear in man and woman, adult and child alike.

The police always did a poor job. Never up to his standards. Sloppy. He didn't expect more out of the overpaid slobs. For once he wanted to feel fear, to be hunted. To know that he has something on the line, or have a gun pointed at him or a blade pressed against his throat.

But he was to blame for that, he supposed. After all, he was too skilled. Too deft and fluid to be caught in the grasp of law enforcement, no matter how many police forces they sent out to get him. A good chunk of them ended up dismembered in the gutter, anyway. They'd learned soon enough not to bother.

And to soothe the citizens' outrage at the blatant inactivity, they'd claim they were doing their best, or flat out cover up the whole incident. Most of his themes had been kept away from the public eye, tucked away as a case file in some dusty old cabinet.

The man had to have recognized the smiley face. Clay wondered why he hadn't called for backup so far. The hunt would've been a hundred times more fun with a whole cop squad on his trail.

The cockiness allowed him a cleaner swipe, however. He could've shoved an anesthetic down his throat, or just plain grab him and drag him back home. It wasn't like anyone around them was awake to question it.

But where would the fun be in perfectly pulling off a haul? There'd be times where he'd purposefully slip to give the law enforcement room to catch up. The miniscule risk of getting caught was exhilarating, pumping in his veins as a rush of excitement.

He had to wonder what a man of that age was doing in a crowd of drunk and unconscious college students. Probably wasn't up to anything good, judging from how sober he was.

After all, a parent wouldn't be accompanying a kid to a party with this level of underground substances being passed around. Clay could smell the ill intent from a mile away.

He jolted as soon as Clay took a step towards him, pulling the phone closer to himself. That was all the evidence needed to know what was going on.

He'd seen way too many glory chasers to be confused. Over the years, various movements towards catching him had been rising up. There'd been countless attempts - fruitless, of course - at catching him in the act.

The reward of turning the notorious Daybreak Killer in was probably too tempting for the man to pass up, even if it came at a cost of incriminating himself by claiming he was at a party full of illegal methods of entertainment.

But his eyes were probably clouded with the promise of riches he'd receive upon handing over the evidence of spotting him to the authorities. Too distracted with the thoughts of glory to notice Clay's gloved fingers wrap around a small object in his pocket.

And quietly, in a volume that would be inaudible over the drunken chatter and tasteless music, Clay spoke a simple command. "Follow me."

The man's face darkened as an indescernible emotion clouded his expression. He stood up to face him, awaiting the next order like an obedient puppy.

Clay chuckled to himself. It had been too easy, but his skin was starting to itch for a new kill. He held his hand out in a silent request for the phone, and the man complied wordlessly.

"Now, walk with me."


	13. Dilemma

George had been waiting with bated breath ever since he'd heard two pairs of feet shuffling around outside the basement door. It seemed Clay hadn't come back from the hunt alone.

There was a quiet creak as the rusty hinges swung out to let a thread of light streak in. Two silhouettes cast shadows on the ground before George, silently announcing their presence.

He instantly recognized the psycopath's outline, - after all, it'd been one of the only things he'd constantly been seeing for the past few days - but the figure next to him was unfamiliar.

Clay came into view soon enough with a stranger in tow. He gestured to an empty chair in a wordless invitation which the man took, moving in almost inhumane strides. It reminded George of the puppets he used to watch on the TV - how their limbs dangled and twisted on threads held by some other force.

Nothing about the newcomer seemed to carry a semblance of life, except for maybe his stained button-up. He sat across from George with glossed over eyes, hands folded in his lap. He'd shown no signs of struggle. Was he here voluntarily?

George couldn't fathom the idea. After all, _he_ would have given everything to be out of the damned basement. The scent of mildew and blood did little to grow on him, instead becoming more and more overbearing by the day. He'd have probably given an arm and a leg to be able to feel sunlight on his face again.

The man had an air of unfamiliarity around him, looking more... lost than anything.

"Tell us your name." Clay spoke, tinkering with something at his workstation.

"Michael Reyes." The newcomer's voice was hardly any different from his movements, words monotone and even. It made the hairs on the back of George's neck stand up.

"Okay, and Mike- can I call you Mike?" He looked over his shoulder at the two of them, neither of which dared to move as the psycopath spoke. "Of course I can. Tell us what you were doing at The Phantom."

George watched the man oblige, not once shifting in his seat. "Distributing PCP, sir."

"Ah, so you're one of those cops." Clay turned around, stirring a clear concoction with a metal straw. The clinking sound it made as it hit the walls of the glass dish grinded on George's ears, but he didn't speak up. "A fan of making some quick cash, huh? Selling drugs to college kids."

George scoffed. "Hypocrite."

The room went dead quiet for a few moments as Clay turned to face him instead. "Hm?"

"You're a hypocrite. Criticizing him for giving out drugs for goods in exchange when you're doing exactly the same thing."

All eyes in the room were on him. The emotionless, blank stare of the newcomer instilled an unreasonable amount of rage in him.

Maybe it was the fact that he seemed so unfazed about poking around in the psycopath's basement, having arrived here voluntarily. There wasn't anything George wasn't willing to give up in exchange of freedom, and here the guy was, prancing around - or rather, sitting still like a statue - in a murderer's lair.

"Dare I say that's a ridiculous analogy?" The masked figure laid his glass container down, walking around Michael's chair to stand in front of George. "I exchange angel dust for _humans_ , George. Not cash. Get it straight."

"Pfft, big difference."

"Do you mean to tell me a human life isn't more valuable than a stack of paper?" The man tilted his head, voice coated with slyness as if he was backing George into a corner. "Are you saying a soul can be bought with currency? I don't think so, George."

The last person he'd expected to give him a lecture on a life's worth was a serial killer whose basement he was trapped in.

The analogy was flawed, but George knew when not to argue. The power imbalance was clear, and any efforts to smart mouth the guy would surely backfire.

"I- no, I guess not." He rolled his eyes when he was sure the psycopath wasn't looking. "Wow. You're _really_ smart."

Despite the evident irony dripping off George's tongue, Clay gave a genuine reply. "Thank you."

No one spoke after that. George took the time while the murderer's back was turned to look the newcomer up and down.

He didn't look too special. Not a single intimidating feature about him, or a hint that give him away. In fact, he seemed just like any other guy he'd usually encounter on their smoke break outside their work office building while running errands for his mom.

His gaze flitted up to Michael's face in a half-hearted attempt to communicate through eye contact, but it soon became clear the man wanted nothing to do with him.

His eyes stayed glued to a fixed spot on the wall behind George, not moving once. Or darting around in alarm, like the first cop's.

Clay walked over to his shelves to retrieve a small tin container. He paused to read a small label scrawled on the lid, seemingly satisfied.

George watched him unhurriedly get closer to the chairs and make a straight beeline for him.

Once he was close enough, he cracked the lid slightly open, just enough for George to spot white clumps of powder.

"I know you're not a... big fan of hallucinogens, George." Clay tilted his head. The blank smile on his mask stared mockingly. "Although I'm curious to hear what you think this is."

He tilted the container to the side to allow George a better look. There were no ideas that instantly popped into his head, though he had a few theories floating around.

"I don't fucking know, coke?" He rolled his eyes. "Get to the point."

Clay straightened, pushing the lid back down. "Eager to start the fun, aren't we?" He placed the box down on the table, returning to his workstation. "I see you're excited."

George strained his neck to get a look at what the psycopath was doing, but his body completely obscured the view.

After a while he turned around, eyeing the two of them. "I found him at the Phantom, gambling away his drug money. He actually recognized me, you know." Clay crossed his arms. "Said he'd follow me if I made his execution fun enough. The guy's a masochist."

The explanation, as absurd as it seemed, at least cleared up why the man had acted as if he were in a trance, completely unbothered. He _had_ come here voluntarily.

He couldn't wrap his head around how someone could actively seek out a gruesome way to be murdered. But if there was someone out there willing to carry out the execution, he figured there'd be an equally twisted person fantasizing over being on the receiving side.

George rolled his eyes, trying to maintain an indifferent exterior. "I don't remember asking."

"I'm getting to the good part." Clay turned around to clear up some space on his workstation to sit on. "So, I figured... Why not get you in on the fun?"

"If you're saying what I think you are-"

"I want you to kill this man, George."

George squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the sudden overbearing thoughts.

"And if I refuse?"

Clay pushed himself up on the table, taking a seat. He seemed unsettlingly calm as he spoke.

"You'll die."


	14. The Devil

The murderer sat, perched on top of his workstation, keeping an observant eye on how George's facial expression shifted from confusion to dread.

It was like a light bulb lit inside George's head. Or maybe an ear-splitting alarm bell went off, but one thing was as clear as day - when the psycopath had set his mind on something, there would be no other outcome.

"It's your choice, George. Your life..." Clay pulled his legs up onto the table to make himself more comfortable. "Or his?"

But did he really have to blindly obey? Was he willing to end an innocent life to save his own? He'd never been the heroic type, but nothing about the compromise sat right with him.

The first thing that kicked in were his survival instincts, of course, being a human being. However, after a few moments of silence, he braced himself for the decision.

He knew what was in his cards - they'd been laid out, bestowing only death upon him.

The murderer slid off the table to retrieve the ornate dagger from one of the shelves. After a moment of consideration, he brought it over to George to completely undo all of his bindings.

He walked back over to the workstation, tinkering with one of his machines that George was too overwhelmed to keep an eye on. Even in his deep thought, though, he could hear the clinking of metallic clasps and an odd rattle.

Unusually enough, even after coming to terms with the fact that his death was set in stone, he couldn't really... _fathom_ the idea that he'd never get to experience the things he had planned.

His ambitions and plans had been stripped away from him, leaving his future looking like somewhat of a barren wasteland. No matter how he attempted to swerve around the present, his death was imminent, hanging over his head and reminding him of the time he had left.

The man in front of him, however, was a stranger. An innocent person with a future ahead of him if George were to give his own in exchange.

"Mine."

Clay seemed taken aback for a split second, as if he hadn't expected the reply. "...Oh?"

"Let him go. I'd rather die than..." George scrunched his face up in disgust. "Than _kill_ someone. You may see nothing wrong with that, but I won't stoop that low."

Clay sighed, seeming more annoyed than anything. He crossed his arms, leaning backwards against the table to make eye contact as he spoke.

"You really fascinate me, George." He slowly tilted his head to the side. "But I think I have something that might make you reconsider."

He picked up a piece of paper from the table, holding it out towards George.

It seemed he wasn't going to move to deliver the leaflet. It was a small gesture, but demeaning enough to get the point across. George was in his playground, not the other way around.

Clay quietly snickered. "Well? Do you want the backstory or not? Before you blindly throw yourself under the guillotine for a complete stranger."

A scented smoke started to fill the room, seemingly wafting from the mechanism on Clay's desk. It seemed to be some sort of makeshift vaporizer, filled to the brim with the familiar white clumps he'd seen in the tin container before.

George gripped the armrests, slowly testing his weight. This would be the first time he'd have been standing in days. The last thing he wanted to do was rush and have his legs give out beneath him.

He slowly pushed himself up, taking his first step forward. Everything seemed... oddly normal. As if he'd been sitting for a few minutes.

Another step. Then another. He neared the outstretched hand and hesitantly grabbed the leaflet. How the psycopath managed to keep tabs on all of his victims was beyond him, but it was fascinating in a way.

His expression darkened as soon as he read the first few words:

_"Twice convincted for arson."_

George kept reading.

_"An addict and a dealer with a knack for setting public buildings on fire. A shopping mall half a decade ago and a small suburban home last year, he truly is a firefighter's worst fear._

_On the off times when his spark (quite literally) for arson dies down, he resorts to his side hustle - dealing PCP to underage and barely legal students to pay off his gambling loans."_

Clay leaned over to peer down at the paper as George read. His face was obscured by the mask, but the smugness coming off him was practically visible. It was in the way he glanced up at George after every sentence compromising the newcomer's situation.

George looked up from the piece of paper to see Clay staring right at him. He held the leaflet in between his fingers, slipping it from George's slackened grasp.

"Did you enjoy the read?" He tucked it away in his pocket. "I wrote it myself. Although I'm sure you could tell."

George hadn't quite yet processed the absurd amount of incriminating information tucked into a small note, written in a comedic, light hearted style as if it were a simple afterthought. Like someone had thought up a ridiculous caricature of a criminal and scribbled it down.

"It's..." George looked up at the smiley face looming over him in the dim lighting, hand still in the same position as if the leaflet had never been taken from him. "I-I'm not sure... _what_ to think, I mean-"

A hand was placed on the side of his face, as cold and lifeless as before. The intention behind it seemed to be comforting, but all it did was threaten to push him over the edge of delirium.

"I understand. You don't have to use your words, George." The icy fingers ran down his cheek to the corner of his jaw. " _Express_ yourself. You have a whole new canvas to create your own art on. I want to see you _flourish_. Truly become a creative mastermind."

The smoke swirled around them. Everything was silent, save for the light whirring of the vaporizer.

The fingers slid down to under his chin, pulling it up to meet the sinister masked face. "Go ahead. Do the world a favor and kill him."

Time seemed to slow down for George. Suddenly, every little buzz, every breath or shuffle, was audible. He could feel his heartbeat speed up, seemingly aware of what was to come.

All it took was a split second to pore over the newly acquired information. There was only one outcome that would benefit him. And it was something he feared deeply.

It wouldn't be such a horrible trade-off - an arsonist and a dealer for a momentary extension for his own life. Not while the stakes were so high and every second was crucial to figure out his escape.

The blank blots resembling eyes stared back at him, piercing and inquisitive, trying to dig deep under the surface and figure out whether George had made up his mind.

There was a dull ache throughout his whole head, as if something was tightly clamped around his skull. The newfound dizziness only added to his sense of disorientation.

The reality of the situation settled in deeper every passing second. If he didn't do this... He'd _die._ Actually die. All traces of his former bravado had disappeared as realization took its place.

Realization... and acceptance.

"I-I'll do it. I'll..." He pushed out the words that just wouldn't roll off his tongue. "I'll kill him."

The cold touch slipped from his skin and took a place on his upper back instead as the murderer walked around him to guide him over to the chairs.

"Stand up for me, Mike." The newcomer instantly followed the order, limbs moving in robotic obedience. "Lay down on the surgical table. We'll be with you shortly."

George watched the man do as told. His chest tightened as it came to comprehend the realness of the situation. He was about to take someone's _life_. A concept so... untouched by him before, to say the least.

And here he was, blindly complying with ridiculous demands for self preservence.

Jitters started to settle in. He looked down at his own hands, trembling like crazy, but he felt numb. Detached from his own body, as if he was just an overlooker keeping an eye from above.

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Clay, I... I don't know if I can do this. P-Please. Please don't make me do this, I can't-"

The hand from his back slipped off to be placed on his shoulder as his captor walked around in front of him.

"Open your eyes."

The air around him felt condensed, thick and difficult to breathe in. It mixed with the thin veil of smoke obscuring his sight farther than an arm's reach away. All he had to steer himself was the man in front of him - steady like an anchor and so sure in himself.

"Listen to me, George." Another hand was brought up to rest in the crevice between his shoulder and neck. The cold, unwelcomed touch made him shudder. "You're not doing anything wrong. The guy wants this, and you'd be ridding the world of a scum."

And if he wereto get out... He'd have to live with the knowledge that he'd gone just as low as the person he'd escaped. He'd be a murderer, no less. He'd have to face his loved ones, his friends... And have this dark secret hidden deep inside, gnawing at him and poisoning the rest of his days with guilt.

The man seemed to read his thoughts from the expression on his face. "No one has to know."

George didn't dare to move. Some illogical part of his subconscious that was still clinging onto the hope that none of this was real was forcing him not to take action.

"I could even start you off. Warm you up, you know?" A pair of piercing eyes bored into his skull. A small switchblade reflected the dim glow of the light bulb with a glint.

Clay walked over to the table, circling it like a hungry vulture scouting out new flesh. His stance was predatory and confident as he searched for a suitable spot to begin.

George wasn't actually sure what the 'warm-up' entailed. He knew to expect the worst, and yet, he still flinched when the blade was lowered onto the victim's face to make the tiniest scrape.

Clay raised his head up, looking straight at George. "Changed your mind yet?" He pressed harder, drawing a pained yelp out of the man below him. "You know, you could be having fun right now."

Usually, even the empty basement was enough to overwhelm him. But standing there, in front of a man who only had death in his cards, he felt nothing but a distant twinge of sorrow.

Maybe he related on some level. A part of him - the one that was selfish and instinctive - urged him to go ahead and save his own skin before a criminal's. To topple over the first brick that he was afraid would start a chain reaction to somewhere that he couldn't recover from. Was he really willing to sink that low?

He watched Clay make a long cut across the man's ribs, pressing with just enough force to rip the fabric, but leave the skin untouched. He ducked away into the other side of the dark room momentarily, wielding a strange tool upon his return.

He held it up to let George get a good view. It seemed to be handmade - just a simple wooden handle with a curved metallic wire sticking out of one end.

"Do you know what this is, George?" He turned it around in his hand. "This... is a pyrography pen."

George averted his gaze to look at anything but the tool. He watched the dark basement, half obstructed by the white smoke. Everything was so eerily still.

"It's a little something used to carve things into wood..." He flicked a little button up on the side of the handle. "By burning it. But we could make it a little more useful than that."

A little more _useful_... The word 'useful' was a whole new level of messed up in the psycopath's dictionary, George figured. After all, the significance of things in that sick world would probably be measured by just how much harm they could inflict. He had to wonder what the pyrography pen would be used on, would it be-

"Great for skin." Clay laid the tool down on a vacant spot on the surgical table. "Not... for health purposes, though." He chuckled to himself. "It'd leave permanent scars if you were to use it on bare skin. Which is exactly what I'm planning to do."

Again, the little part of his subconscious that convinced him the situation wouldn't be real if he just didn't react persisted. He cast his gaze downwards at his feet, not even caring to obstruct his blatant attempt to distance himself.

It wasn't long before he heard a pair of feet shuffling towards him to stand right in front of him. He could see just how unnaturally close they were by the distance between the tips of their shoes.

No matter what, though, the murderer always kept an inch of space between them. Just enough to barely brush against each other in case of abrupt movements. Aside from that, his presence was just... _there._

A gloved hand reached up to tilt his head upwards to make eye contact.

"What's wrong?"

A lot. A lot of things were wrong. He felt like doubling over and crumbling to join the layer of dust on the concrete floor, and the cold touch on his cheek did nothing to make him feel better.

A soft sigh followed the silence. "You know I'm trying my best to make this enjoyable for you, right?" Icy fingers slid down his skin and back up to rest on the side of his face. "Just try to enjoy yourself. It'll be over soon. And hey-"

George jerked his head sideways to escape the dreadful touch. He could still feel the phantom touch on the parts of his skin where the gloved hand had been resting, and he shuddered against the sensation.

Clay seemed displeased with the disobedience, but made no moves to return his hand to its former position. Instead, he lowered it and circled back around the table to pick the tool up.

The wire on top of the pen was glowing red now. Clay turned it upside down and swatted the fabric of the clothes away, lowering the hot metal on the exposed skin.

A sickening hiss of burning skin and a deafening cry instantly sounded throughout the room. George jolted up at the sound, somewhat snapping out of his haze.

It was a painful sight to watch - the features of the man were creased in agony as he yelled out to beg for mercy.

A painful, and a confusing sight. There was no reason to defy the fantasy the victim had been chasing. If he even was to be called that.

Although, if it _was_ regret making him act out, there was little to no chance he'd be let off. George doubted there was a way out of the basement once someone had entered. Or rather, been forcibly dragged in.

Clay threw the tool on the surgical table with a clatter and shoved his hands in his pockets, seemingly looking for something.

"Be quiet."

As if on command, the shouts died down in a split second. They'd been far too real to be fake, but there was no other explanation. It was baffling and incredibly off-putting.

Clay picked up the pyrography pen and resumed etching burn marks onto the man's skin as if nothing had happened.

It was horrendous, the smell alone making George want to puke his guts out - a festering stench of burnt leather, mixed with an odd earthy tinge.

Once satisfied, Clay flicked the power off, and the wire slowly returned to its former grey metallic tint. He stowed it away in favor of a scalpel, and began slicing in odd shapes and patterns all over the place.

George took a single step forward. He wasn't sure what moved him to get closer - sick curiosity, a dizzy misstep, or something else entirely.

The sight was a strong contender for the sickening smell of burnt flesh with blood from the wounds. The parts the burns had been inflicted on were red, with yellowish blisters lining the sides. It made George's stomach churn and turn upside down with queasiness.

And while he couldn't wrap his mind around at how the grizzly crime scene could be viewed as an art piece, he couldn't help but admire how lost in thought Clay seemed, entranced in his craft as he made precise incisions and cuts all over the body.

"Your turn." George looked to his side to see the scalpel laying on an outstretched hand. "Show me what you're capable of."

It took a while to get used to the feeling of cold metal underneath his skin as he wrapped his hand around the handle. Dark red was dripping off the sharp edge, drops cascading down and onto the floor in soft, rhythmic taps.

Everything around him was veiled in white smoke. Every breath of it made him feel alive. Truly _awake_.

When he finally managed to tear his gaze off the hypnotizing sight of the dripping, he found an expectant pair of eyes staring back at him.

It was weird how he could somehow read emotion off the black blots of paint on a mask, but they radiated much more that what should've been possible - contempt, excitement, slyness. Basically the only ones he'd sensed from the man.

As much as he wanted to get the murder over with, he couldn't bring himself to land the first blow. Every time he neared the victim, his heart sped up and queasiness set in.

Cold fingers draped over his knuckles, enveloping his hand in a patient hold. George looked over to see Clay standing even closer, however not making any moves as if asking for permission to continue.

"Let me help. It's your first performance. I want it to be memorable for you."

That's all this was to him. A theatrical play that they had to make remarkable and end off with a flourish.

If the metallic scent of blood and wet, pained pants of the victim hadn't done it for George, he felt sick to his stomach now.

He jerked his hand free of the icy hold. "I don't want your fucking help. What I _want_ is to get this over with."

The man let out a low chuckle that made the hairs on his neck stand up and sent goosebumps down his body. The hand retreated as Clay walked around to stand behind him, leaning over to murmur into his ear.

"As you wish." George could feel the presence behind him, invading his personal space. He could feel the spoken words on his skin and he did his best not to give into the shiver threatening to run up his neck. "May I suggest something, though?"

George braced himself, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "...I-I guess."

A hand slid around him to fix his grip on the handle of the scalpel. The gloved fingers brushed against his, making him almost lose control of his muscles and drop it to the ground.

"That's better, isn't it?" The hand slinked back out of view. "And you're lucky I'm in a good mood today, George. If you talked to me like that any other day... There'd be consequences."

There was a low rumble in the man's voice that threw George off guard. It was too... human. Way more than he'd been used to after his only source of interaction being psycopathic rambles.

An expectant whisper came from behind him. "Well?"

"...Right. Y-yeah, um. Gimme a minute."

George wasn't sure what he really needed the minute for. He closed his eyes, somehow hoping that the pitch black would help him focus.

He'd completely forgotten about the bloodied man laying in front of him for a few moments. The... _situation_ had suddenly thrown him off kilter. The presence never left, even after shutting out his vision.

He took a small step towards the surgical table, tightening his hold around the scalpel until his knuckles turned white. The sensation wasn't particularly pleasant, but it was somewhere to channel his nervous energy into.

"Just like that, George." Right as he had taken a step forward, the man followed, keeping the same distance between them, almost brushing together. "Go on. You know you want to."

George let out a shuddering breath as he opened his eyes and took in the sight. "...I really don't."

The voice sounded again after a while, even closer and guttural than before. "You don't have a choice." A hand was placed on either side of his shoulders, keeping him firmly rooted in place. "Your life's on the line."

As much as he hated to, he had to come to terms with the sickening reality. It was either kill or be killed, and 'kill' was looking like a darn good option. Especially considering who the victim was.

An addict and a dealer.

Arsonist.

A masochist, unable to feel remorse.

If anything, he sounded exactly like the psycopath he was dealing with. Somewhat inexperienced, but on the sure path of becoming an even bigger menace.

Maybe it was him justifying his own selfish actions. He'd never been one to play devil's advocate, but those immoral arguments were looking pretty alluring with his own life on the chopping board.

He focused on the tattered chest, rapidly rising and falling in labored, pained breaths.

A psychopath.

Inability to feel remorse.

But would that carry on to personal experience? Would he feel pain that he didn't feel for others? George wasn't the only selfish one.

He only wished there was someone else on that table. Someone that was looming over him from behind, curiously and excitedly watching his internal crisis.

He'd be strapped to the table, riddled with cuts and wounds, finally in the shoes of the prey while the man he'd captured for his entertainment stood over him, letting all the desperate pleas land on his deaf ears.

He could see it now. The stained button up sleeves turning into the grimy clothes and gloves caked with dry blood. The uneven stubble and pleading eyes, morphing into a smiling mask.

He'd lay there, looking up at George in fear. He'd try and beg for forgiveness, but it'd be too late. George would make him pay for every little thing he'd done.

He stepped closer, the scalpel hovering an inch above the skin. It'd be the nearest thing to closure he'd be able to get.

Slowly, deliberately, he pressed down. The sharp point instantly broke the skin. George stood and watched in awe as more blood trickled out.

Far too little for his liking. He wanted Clay to _suffer_. To really feel something. The fact that it was an entirely different man strapped to the table didn't matter anymore.

White smoke, drifting around the three of them, awakening him. He saw things beyond it, ones without explanation. Black splotches of nothingness appearing and phasing back out again.

With full focus onto taming his trembling hand, he made a second incision. This one much more calculated. Calm.

Pained pleas muddled with the deafening buzzing settling into his ears. The overbearing black spots let him see nothing except for what was directly in front.

All he had to focus on was the table. Everything was directly under his order. A flick of his wrist, and a life would be over.

The features of the man formed into a smiling mask once again, empty eyes peering up at him mockingly. He felt a distant feeling bubbling up inside him. Unfamiliar and repressed - rage.

Like a fever dream, all the times he'd been hurt, talked into a crisis, touched without permission. Flooding into his memory. As each moment flashed before his eyes, he seethed even more and more with anger.

Channeling all of his frustration into his tool, he pushed down onto the skin once more, making an incision from the face all the way down to the abdomen.

It felt like dipping his toes into an unexplored potential of what could've been. It was quite frankly unsatisfying, and he craved to slam the justice gavel down and deliver what was deserved.

"Something sharper." He outstretched his hand, unsure of who he was giving an order to. After all, the only other person was in the room, strapped down, looking up at him with a smiling face and a gaping stomach wound.

After a few seconds, a small electric buzzsaw was placed onto his hand. He flicked the power button up, contemplating where to bring it down.

"What do you have in mind, George?" A hand was placed on his waist from behind as someone leaned over his shoulder for a better view. He felt a cold body press up against his back, but he was too entranced to notice.

The electrical whirring blended into the overbearing mixture of sounds as well. If he really focused, he could make out a few things - desperate pleas and whines, the buzzing of his saw, and just a loud nothingness. It seemed to accompany the dark blots, spiking up and down in tandem with his vision.

What _did_ he have in mind? He knew that he wanted something sharper. More severe, to cause the most pain in the most efficient way.

He wanted the punishment to be just, however. Starting with the hands the heinous crimes had been committed with.

The skin below the leather straps phased into grimy, gloved hands back to normal ones, sizzling like TV static.

As soon as he brought the saw down, however, he got splashed by a barrage of stray blood drops. The saw was too messy to complete a clean amputation without completely caking himself in red.

But he figured he'd give it a try. After all, the psycopath had enjoyed the sensation so much. Why couldn't he?

The saw met something hard after a while of pressing it down into the flesh.

The hand on his waist slid up to lay on his shoulder instead. "That's the bone. You might want to press a little harder."

He did as told, pushing down with a little more force. The saw struggled to cut through, whirring loudly. However, it pulled through, separating the bone with a sickening crack.

The rest of the way down was relatively easy, and the hand came right off. George swatted it away to the side, trying to ignore how the black fabric of the gloves morphed back into skin.

All of the deafening noise in the room pounded in his ears, threatening to burst his eardrums. He sought solace in the pure white of the smoke as he drew in labored breaths. Just a few minutes in, and the activity had already knocked the wind out of him.

He resorted to using the saw to haphazardly scatter cuts all along the body, not minding how deep he went. It felt justified to treat the body of a psycopath the way they'd treated all their victims - with complete disregard.

The man was losing a lot of blood, though, and he had to act fast if he wanted to implement another step in his makeshift trial.

His hands were starting to shake like crazy, and it took all of his fleeting willpower to get them to stay steady. Gaining focus was almost impossible though, at the rate his vision and hearing were worsening.

The only thing that stayed unmoving and constant was the presence behind him. Unwelcome and sinister, but familiar, and that's all he needed to stay grounded.

Although it was difficult to tell whether he'd completely lost it or not. There were little patches in the smoke, little windows of sanity, just long enough to realize what he was doing was incredibly twisted. But not enough to pull himself back.

Just as his little pocket of air had let him breathe, the white smoke took over again, capturing him in its unyielding grasp. It felt as if fingers had wrapped around his pounding hard, squeezing tight and digging nails into the squishy surface.

Everything went silent. George stood in front of the aftermath of his frenzy, coated from head to toe in blood.

The thick metallic scent hung in the air, mixing with the taste on his tongue.

Somewhere behind him, an ominous chuckle sounded, sending goosebumps down George's spine. It was eerie, and starkly contrasting to the chaos that had been occuring moments ago.

Body still riddled with jitters, George turned around. He managed to get his eyes to focus against the twitching and glance at Clay stifling his laughter with a hand, stance joyful and bubbly.

"Oh, George..." He shook his head. "You may be a lot of things... Stubborn, arrogant... But I certainly didn't take you for a gullible idiot."

The moment George took his attention off keeping his muscles under control, a shiver seized his body, making him drop the scalpel to the floor with a dull clatter.

"What are you saying?"

"Heh. You're too trusting, George. And it was your downfall." The blank eyes stared back at him in the poorly illuminated room. "I lied."

George could practically hear the rusty gears in his head turning as it circled back to the events of the past few hours at a painfully slow pace.

"I... I don't understand."

The only thing he could recall was the promise of being spared, but at this point he wouldn't mind if it wasn't fulfilled.

Clay threw his head back, trying to stifle another laugh. A muffled giggle escaped his lips behind the mask, menacingly resonating throughout the room.

"All it took for you to change your mind... To completely betray your morals..." He took a small step to close the distance between them. "Was a lie. A little something to put you in the spot of the good guy."

"I- What are you-"

"Remember this?" Clay retrieved the backstory leaflet from his pocket, waving it around in the air. "The heinous 'crimes' it listed?"

Double arson. Drug dealing and abuse, with occasional gambling. Of course he remembered. It was the first factor of many, the first falling block that would start a chain reaction to push him over the edge.

"What if I told you, George, that it was all a lie? A little something I scribbled down while you were too busy looking our guest up and down." He stowed the leaflet back away, taking another step. "I just needed a piece of paper and a ridiculous half-assed story that you just _jumped_ at the chance to believe. Because tell you what, George. You're not the good person you think you are."

"I- No. That can't be true, it's not-"

The psycopath's voice interrupted him, suddenly overpowering every single sound, booming across the entirety of the basement.

"Because deep down, you're just as selfish as any other. I just helped you realize it." Another step. The looming figure drew closer and closer every passing moment. "You were conditioned to play the hero instead of saving your own skin. I've seen it countless times. And I saw it in your eyes, too. The scheming. You never once considered the actual possibility of the outcome that would result in your death."

George's stomach turned. A sudden nausea overcame him at the incoming barrage of information, backing him into a corner like some sort of prey.

"That- No! That's not true. It can't be." The desperation in his voice must've been apparent, but he didn't care. He had to know. "You don't lie. I know you dont- I... You _never_ lie! You couldn't have. You're-"

"Tsk. Tsk. George..." Clay snickered as he drew even closer. "When I said you were fascinating, I wasn't joking. You truly are something else."

The mangled body was still visible in the corner of the room. The bloody, distorted limbs pushed George over the edge, making him retch.

"You blindly trusted my word. When all I've done is cause you and others pain." He tilted his head to the side, bringing a finger up to his chin in mock thought. "Or, perhaps, - and bear with me on this one - you _wanted_ all of it to be true. To entertain your morals."

The haze was wearing off - the clouded judgments in his delirious frenzy had cleared up, leaving only the dread of the realness of the situation to settle in.

"Tell you what, George. You _have_ actually done something good today. You helped me. Isn't that nice?" He drew even closer. "The 'masochist'-" He raised his fingers up into air quotes. "Was actually one of the first cops assigned to my case. I brought him here because he was trying to record me, you see."

George had... helped his own captor. The reason his life was in shambles. He'd fallen for a completely fabricated story, a caricature of a tacky villain made up on the spot. And on what trust? A flawed foundation of expected honesty. From a sociopath.

But besides that, he'd just _killed_ someone. Much to his own mistake, he made eye contact with the lifeless stare of the corpse. Blood ran in rivulets down its skin. Tattered flesh, ruthlessly ripped and shredded to bits by his own hands.

"And the smoke, George. The _smoke!_ I really thought you'd catch on." Clay's voice sounded mildly disappointed, as if he was reprimanding George for something meaningless. "I vaporized the powder I showed you." He snickered. "You should've known better than to give a blind guess. It's actually an entirely different drug."

He looked down to see his hands stained red. Some of the blood had started to dry and crack, peeling off bit by bit.

"Many different names around the locals. College kids call it countless nicknames, but I prefer 'gravel'. It's surprisingly cheap. Super popular in Florida, too. Wasn't hard to get my hands on it."

His knees started to tremble, and eventually gave out. The queasiness turned into overbearing nausea and he desperately tried to steady himself on his hands as he threw up.

The vomit splattered on the concrete below him, a few drops falling on his clothes and mixing with the blood. He heaved and closed his eyes in an attempt to forget, even for just a split second, but the mental image of the gashes covering the dead body persisted, as if etched permanently into his memory.

"It's a rage inducing drug. The dizziness, jitters... the hallucinations... And the _anger._ Oh, I _like_ it when you're angry." He took a final step. George could see his shoes on the floor right in front of him. "It awakens something in me."

He tried to straighten as a last ditch effort to hide his weakness against the predatory eyes watching over him, but his trembling hands gave out. He curled up on the floor beside the puddle of vomit instead, too overwhelmed to pay the putrid stench any mind.

"Want to hear about how I got him to follow me so obediently? Quite a funny story." Clay pulled out a small object from his pocket, partly obscured by his hand. "It's a special crystal. Not sure how it works, but all I've got to do is this-" He wrapped his fingers around the shape. "And it lets me tap into someone's mind."

He hadn't even realized he'd been crying until he felt sobs wracking his body. His throat closed up as he struggled to breathe against his choked whimpers.

"Pity it only works in crowded spaces. You know I'd be using it all the time on you."

The figure looming over him stayed unmoving, keeping a curious eye trained on him.

"Anyways, I wouldn't worry _too_ much about it. Big deal, you just killed a man. I do it all the time!" The cheery tone grinded on George's ears. All he wanted was to have the psycopath on the table instead, making him scream and thrash in pain, finally experiencing what it was like to be in his victims' shoes. "You should've seen your face when I told you."

The mental images of what he'd done flashed in front of his eyes, forcing him to relive the murderous mania he'd experienced, although now without the effects of the drug and fully conscious to soak in the guilt.

"Oh, right." Clay pulled out something from his mask, carelessly throwing it to the floor with a clatter. "It's an air filter. Couldn't have _myself_ breathing in the smoke now, could I?"

He kneeled down to stand on his toes. George felt a hand grab his hair in an attempt to steer his head sideways, so he gave into the demand.

"Why the long face? You got what you wanted, didn't you? You got to live to see another day." A rough hold yanked his head towards the floor. "I think The Devil would be a perfect fit for this piece. It's in your honor, of course."

After a long moment, the invasive presence left his side. Clay stood up and brushed himself off.

"Enjoy the life you killed a man for. I hope you make it worthwhile." A pair of feet shuffled to the door of the basement, coming to a stop at the far end, where the door was.

The light pouring in from the opened door before it was closed again to leave him submerged in the dark would be the last he'd see in a long while.


	15. Unexpected Visitor

George sat with his back against one of the damp concrete walls, tinkering with a random metallic scrap he'd found laying on the floor nearby.

It was hard to tell when he'd last heard a human voice. Or anything, in fact. It had to have been days. Maybe even a week.

But one thing that made the absolute nothingness even more unbearable... was just how normal he felt. No painful starvation, no sickening dehydration... Absolutely _nothing_.

It had been off-putting, but that wasn't to say he hadn't put the time to good use. It had started off as something productive to pass the time, and slowly turned into a full-blown obsessive investigation.

He'd taken to delving deep into the memory archive whenever he could scrape together enough mental capacity to do so. It was difficult to get around to, most times, just because of the sheer amount of trauma he was unburrowing from the psycopath's childhood.

He threw the metal scrap to the side, pushing himself up to stand on his numb legs and walk over to the shelves to pore over the items laid out on them. He'd had all the time in the world to observe the room, and that's exactly what he'd done. By now, he could navigate every little nook and cranny, even with his eyes closed.

His eyes betrayed him just for a split second to dart to the corner of the room. He couldn't help but look, every chance he got. Even though what was laying there was the very last thing he needed to face.

It was where he'd wrapped the body up in all the sheets he'd managed to find around the room and stowed it away as far away from himself as possible.

The weird thing was that there was no stench - if the movies he watched were something to go off on, the smell of decomposing flesh should've burnt his nostrils inside out by now, but there was nothing.

He closed his eyes again. Even in the tiny patch of light the dim bulb provided, he preferred not to see at all. It was comforting, in a way, not having to carry the burden of knowing what was there. At least for a moment in blissful ignorance.

He reached out to brush his fingers against the spot he'd placed the headset before. His memory hadn't failed him, since his skin came in contact with a cold surface.

With a soft shuffle, he slid it off the shelf and placed it on top of his head. His muscle memory kicked in to complete the rest of the steps - the lever on the side to turn the headset on, a drop of the murderer's blood in the iridescent liquid, and a whole lot of patience.

He sat back down on his spot on the cold floor, waiting for the effects to kick in.

Within a few moments, he was back to a familiar empty field. Birdsong filled his ears as warm sunlight poured into his vision and down onto vibrant green grass all around his feet.

He circled back to past events to think of a good memory to visit. Something that'd be helpful to him in the long run.

There was an odd detail that stuck out to him. The crystal he'd been shown after... the _thing_. Nothing about a kind controlling rock seemed normal to him, if that even was the real method Clay had used to get the man to his lair.

Nevertheless, his vision blacked out, imagery forming before his eyes on its own. His body became one with Clay's to relive the memory as his own.

Clay and his mother, Elaine, were sitting around a wooden table with a barebones cake on top. A single candle placed in the center of it was the only light source illuminating the room, the rest of it plunged into pitch black.

"Alright, sweetie." Elaine reached over to place a hand on top Clay's. Something was off about her fingers - he couldn't place exactly what, but they seemed... longer. "Make a wish."

Even though it was just the two of them in the room, a presence could be clearly felt. It hung thick in the air in hostility. Whatever it was, it wasn't welcoming.

He eyed the dry round sponge bread loosely resembling a cake. And thought.

An expectant gaze stayed trained right on him, never letting up. He was too afraid to even think of something in fear that his mother could somehow hear. A stupid thing to believe in, he thought, but the constant nagging fear that she was somehow inside his head never passed.

Elaine cleared her throat, gesturing to the candle that was now dripping wax onto the cake. No amount of cold hard goop could make it any less appealing to Clay, however. In fact, a rock could probably be more flavorful, knowing his mother's cooking.

"Blow out the candles, dear." She beckoned to Clay, silently urging him to hurry up.

He did as told. The flimsy flame instantly flickered out, leaving them sat in complete darkness. Clay's throat closed up as the hostile presence grew even stronger, seemingly strengthened by the darkness.

After a few moments of silence, a light switch was clicked on. Clay sat expectantly, watching his mother retrieve a sloppily wrapped package.

It wasn't unintentional. When it came to his mother, all things had to be neat and tidy. Immaculate. There was not a single detail she could mess up, since an incomplete job meant the end of the line in this field of work. The tattered paper and the rips and holes spread throughout the wrapping was no mistake - it was a carefully placed gesture of carelessness.

However, Clay put on a grateful smile as he took the battered package and slowly undid the wraps.

Inside lay a single stone. It was oddly shaped and pulsing with a warm glow, as if alive.

His mother pridefully sat back down. "Happy sixteenth birthday, Clay."

The confusion must've been evident on his face since he didn't bother to hide it, earning an amused grin from Elaine.

"Uh... How exactly do I use this?"

His mother reached over to pick up the rock, tightly wrapping her fingers around the oblong shape.

"Watch this." The glow grew stronger, brighter. "Clay, stand up."

His limbs suddenly jerked upwards, jolting him up and out of his seat much to his resistance. His legs moved on their own and bent at unnatural angles. George cringed against the feeling. It was off putting to say the least, the feeling of having no control over his own body.

"Now pick up the knife." Clay tried his best to wrench his fingers free from the hilt as he took it in his grasp. "Don't look so scared, my little clay boy. Just slice your skin a bit. To check if the knife needs sharpening."

The protective motherly tone George was familiar with from his own mother was nowhere to be found. Not even a speck of caring could be found in the eyes that were glinting with sickening excitement. So that's where _he'd_ gotten it from.

And slowly, with a trembling hand, Clay lowered the knife onto his veins and pressed. George could feel the struggle to disobey, but an invisible force held him captive, restricting his will.

A choked gasp escaped his lips as the skin broke and the blade drew blood. It trickled down his skin, dripping onto the floor.

"Stop!" He cried out. The desperation was evident in his shaky voice, but he didn't care. "P-Please. Please stop. It hurts."

His mother watched him with her chin propped up on her hands. She tilted her head sideways, in the familiar mock confusion George had come to recognize.

"But why? This is fun. We're having some quality time together."

The wound was now gushing blood. Clay couldn't bear to tear his eyes away from it, frozen in shock.

The room suddenly went pitch black, and all sounds were drowned out until George was left in complete silence. Cut off from both worlds, - hallucinogenic and real - he decided to wait it out until he got his senses back.

He hadn't even realized how much he'd been trembling. He wrapped a hand around his knees, the shuffle of the fabric of his clothes reassuring him that he wasn't completely lost in the limbo between real and delusive.

The rest of the memory was gone, it seemed, forgotten for good. Maybe Clay's subconscious had done him a favor and completely blocked it out to preserve his sanity. Not that he had any to begin with.

He remembered hearing about the brain shutting out traumatic memories, often resulting in a person forgetting their entire childhood. The fact that most of Clay's life had been preserved in the imaginary archives was miraculous - George would've probably dropped dead from the sheer stress in the guy's shoes.

He steadied his shaky hands, wondering whether to keep going and force the memory. After all, if it had been too much for the psycopath to handle, who knew what reliving it would do to him?

Some things would be better left unknown, he thought. But if he was to escape, he needed every last scattered crumb of information he could sweep up and piece together into a coherent backstory.

There was also one thing that stuck out to him as odd. Clay had mentioned the rock only worked in crowded spaces. For that to be effective, there had to be multiple people sticking around the room. He hadn't seen any, though.

His train of thought was interrupted by a pair of footsteps coming down the hallway. It was barely audible, and George would've missed it, if it weren't for his sensory deprivation for the past few days.

Normally, he would've loathed hearing the psycopath approach, but he scrambled up to put away the headset and bated his breath with anticipation.

After a few more minutes of consideration, he realized the steps were a bit... off. Stopping when the stairs creaked too loud and resuming when the quiet echos died down.

It was different from the confident, almost careless strides of his captor, weaving around every squeaky floorboard with flawless expertise and never stopping in his tracks.

That only meant one thing. The person on the other side of the door couldn't have been Clay. But who else would-

The door to the basement swung open to reveal an all too familiar face staring back at George.

" _Sapnap_?!"  
  



	16. Escape Plan

George could do nothing but stare at the familiar silhouette, frozen in shock.

"George?" Sapnap's eyes trailed the entirety of the grimy basement. "What the fuck happened here?"

George pushed himself off the concrete with great effort. His trembling body didn't make the job any easier, but he managed to swerve around a surgical table just as Sapnap had made his way over to get closer.

"Don't-" George reached out with a hand defensively, desperately searching for something to scare the unwanted visitor off. "Don't come _any_ closer!"

Sapnap held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not going to hurt you, George. Chill the fuck out." He took another step forwards. "I'm here to-"

George picked up a stray scalpel from the table with a fumble, wielding it as a makeshift weapon. "I said don't come any closer!" His trembling hand probably wouldn't even have been able to do any real damage in the off chance he'd actually have to use the weapon, and he secretly hoped Nick didn't know that. "Go away. Turn around and leave. Or I swear to god I'll fucking stab you."

That got the Sapnap to recoil a little, giving George just enough time to run to the shelves and swap out his scalpel for the familiar ornate dagger.

"Jesus christ, George! The fuck's wrong with you?!"

"What's wrong with me?" George spoke through gritted teeth. "What's wrong with _me_?!" He neared the man, rage disregarding all his former caution. "You put me here, asshole! You expect me to greet you with open arms?"

"Put down the goddamn knife, George! I'm not-" Despite his best attempts, fear was evident in his wavering voice. "I'm not here to hurt you, okay? I fucked up."

"No _shit_ you fucked up. And you fucked up for a second time by showing your face here!" George lunged at the man with his knife who just barely managed to dodge. "I'll fucking murder you for what you did to me!"

The basement was dark, and Nick seemed to have a way harder time navigating it than George, who'd had all the time in the world to fumble around aimlessly and study every corner. It gave him an edge in the face off, even if his strength didn't quite match up to Sapnap's.

"George-" He stepped back to avoid another slash, nearly missing a chair behind him. "George, stop! I'm trying to get you out!"

George wrapped his fingers tighter around the hilt, the engravings of the dagger digging into his skin. "Hah. Like I'd believe that."

"Would you rather _rot_ here? Jesus christ, be reasonable for at least a second!" He seemed to notice George stop in his tracks for just a split second at the statement. "Even if you don't trust me, I'm the best shot you've got at getting out of here!"

George took a moment to consider the proposition. His mind was clouded and the anger still hadn't worn off, making it difficult to analyze the points.

It _was_ true - Sapnap was probably the only one that knew the psycopath's lair like the back of his hand, given his frequent visits. And while he had nothing to lose if the offer was a lie, he had a whole lot to gain on the slim chance that it wasn't.

Perhaps it was the circumstances throwing his judgement off, or maybe the insatiable longing to see the light of day, but he ceased all movement to lend an ear to what else Nick had to say. If worst came to worst, he was the one wielding the weapon and Sapnap was cornered on the other side of the basement, all defenses far out of reach.

He held the tip of the blade up to the man's throat. "Go on."

Sapnap let out a small sigh of relief. "You're finally gonna hear me out?" His expression curled into a smirk, but quickly sobered up when he saw the scowl on George's face. "Listen, man. I know I fucked up. I'm not really asking for forgiveness right now. I just wanna do what's right."

George inched the blade a little closer. "Spit it out."

"You're my best friend, dude." After a short pause, he added. "...Or, you were. And I fucked up big time. And I feel like shit. I had to come get you. I had to."

George's lips pressed into a thin line in frustration at the words. Empty affection that meant nothing after the actions of the person that spoke them so genuinely at that very moment.

"I'm gonna get you out." He continued. "And then... I'm gonna turn myself in."

"...What?"

"I'm gonna hand myself over to the cops." Sapnap cast his eyes down at the floor between them. "I've done some things, George. Terrible things. I'm a piece of shit."

"I know you are. I just didn't think you'd have the guts to take responsibility."

Sapnap, although an all around honest and friendly guy, had always dodged the situation when things came to facing accountability for his mistakes, even for something as meaningless as forgetting to text back. Instead of acknowledging what he'd done, he'd always changed the topic.

The big revelation had come to an especially big shock to George - it was an unusually righteous move. Given that Sapnap didn't end up chickening out when the time came to actually execute his plan, of course.

George lowered his dagger, earning a relieved smile from Sapnap, but still made sure to keep it on hand to strike if necessary.

"Come on, buddy. Just a flight of stairs and you're a free man."

George tested the handle, not fully believing he could open the door. There was a latch on the outside, allowing it to be locked only from there.

Sure enough, there was a staircase right in front of them. The passageway looked uncomfortably tight, and it probably wouldn't allow much wiggle room if it was needed.

George stepped to the side, and Sapnap took the silent cue to take the lead up the stairs. He made sure to heed Nick's warnings, careful to avoid any squeaky floorboards.

Upon taking the last step and walking through yet another door, an entirely different sight welcomed George. It felt like turning the page of a pop-up book. He'd flipped the paper over, and a new scene had taken the former's place.

The two of them stood in an unassuming, old fashioned living room. In fact, calling it 'old fashioned' would've been a sparing way to put it. The place looked like something straight out of the 1920s.

The walls were pasted with ornate floral wallpaper, with sophisticated paintings and mirrors adorning the walls. Huge, ornate windows stretched to the ceilings, framing the room into a magnificent personification of a time capsule from the 20th century.

There was a fireplace on one wall, with various memorabilia lining the top of it and the bookshelves all around the room.

He eyed the green couch facing the fireplace. The window to his left - just like all the other windows in the room - had been boarded up. A mess of yellowing leaves and roots was residing in a pot on the windowsill, now a sorrowful form of its former blossoming self.

The place seemed awfully familiar. He remembered every tidbit of the interior - the fireplace, the green couch, the books... And yet, it would've been impossible for him to ever have been here.

At least in the flesh.

And that's when everything clicked into place - this was the living room he'd seen in Clay's memories.

_A little boy, sitting next to his mother in front of a crackling fireplace. Soft flakes of snow were piling up into a thick white blanket on the pavement, twirling and dancing on their way down._

He remembered now. He remembered everything, although the beautiful scenery from the window had been concealed by boards, and the welcoming fire crackling in the fireplace had been put out long ago.

"Psst, George!" An urgent whisper beckoning to him snapped him out of the memory. "Come help me with this, would you?"

George walked over to the source of the sound, only to discover a tall wooden door, reinforced with steel plates and covered top to bottom in locks.

They were of varying sizes and shapes, ranging from simple padlocks and deadbolts all the way to complicated levers and buttons.

"I'm gonna try all the keyholes here. You figure something out about the buttons, alright?" He tried the first key, letting out a disheartened huff when it didn't turn in the socket. "This is gonna take a while. The guy's fucking obsessed with locks."

George slid the first deadbolt to the side and moved on to pressing random combinations on the small buttons scattered all across the door's surface. He was about to flick a lever, when a question popped into his head.

"Hey, Nick?" He heard a small hum. "How did you get in?"

"I was _let_ in. Too bad no one's here to let me _out_. I'd love to not be fondling a giant dungeon door right now."

George felt his mouth dry up as he realized the only thing that could mean. "He let you in?! So he _knows_ you're here?" He jolted away from the door. "What the fuck!"

"Shhh! Lower your goddamn voice, you dumbass." Nick had moved onto a second lock now. "No, of course he doesn't know, are you stupid?"

"Then how-"

"I _hid_ , you idiot! After I brought in the..." His movements stopped for a moment as he held down the lump in his throat. Whatever he was about to say, he was struggling with it. "The second guy. To be fair, the guy was a dick, but still."

"That was, what - weeks ago? I'm supposed to believe you hid here for _that_ long without him realizing?"

Sapnap took his eyes off the door to shoot him a look of worry. "You okay, man? It's only been a few hours."

A... few hours.

It sure hadn't felt like a few hours. There was no way it had been.

George must've had a dumbfounded look plastered on his face, since Sapnap showed concern. "George? You alright?"

But this wasn't the time to get existential. He had to focus on his goal, and that was getting out of here alive and as soon as possible.

He turned back to the door, trying to make sense of the cluster of seemingly inoperative levers and buttons. There had to be something that would open the door, but nothing was labeled or color coded.

"I can't believe you've been here so many times and don't know how to open the fucking front door."

Sapnap rolled his eyes. " _Excuse_ me for not being sober enough to memorize the combination this prick uses to unlock his weird prison door." He flicked a deadbolt to the side to move on to another lock. "Just... Try this." He pulled a phone out of his pocket without taking his eyes off the task at hand. "Here you go. He texted me the order of the buttons once, I think."

George took it with a disgruntled groan. "You couldn't have remembered that any earlier?"

"Shut up." Sapnap huffed. "And do it quickly."

George wondered where his phone could've been. Surely his captor would've been smart enough to dispose of it. But he supposed it was of no use anyway now, since he would be out in two minutes at most.

He opened up the message app on the phone, scrolling through the contacts. "Which one is it?"

"Oh, I don't have his number saved. Here." He took the phone and tapped on a random conversation. "That's him."

Sapnap had turned back to fidgeting with the locks, leaving George to sift through the mess of misspelled messages - words that were jumbled in an all too familiar way. Nick hadn't been sober during any of the conversations.

"Jesus, Nick. You spam a lot." His thumb was getting tired from swiping now. "He doesn't text you back at all, does he?"

"Only when necessary. Keep looking. I'm almost done with the door."

Suddenly, the screen froze. No matter how many times George barraged the screen with his haphazard taps, it didn't move.

"Uhh, Sap? Your screen's..." He turned the phone away from himself to let Nick get a better look at it. "Frozen."

He was met with a dismissive wave. "Yeah, whatever. Let it load for a minute. It always freezes when-"

George eased up on the screen to look at Nick, only to find his features frozen in shock.

"It always freezes when what?"

"When I..." As if on cue, the screen lit up and an obnoxious ringtone started playing at max volume, piercing the quiet and bouncing off the walls. "When I get a call. Fuck."

George started pushing on everything in a panic - the volume down button, the silent mode button, everything. But the phone was still frozen and emanating an extremely loud noise.

There was a sound of a chair squeaking against floorboards coming behind one of the closed doors around them.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck." George tried covering the speaker with his hand. "How do I turn this thing off?!"

Sapnap let out a defeated sigh. He didn't speak, opting to lean against the door and slide onto the floor instead. "You can't. It's an old piece of shit."

A door swung open.

George bolted to the front door, but it was still securely locked. "What are you doing?! Get up!"

George's alarmed voice seemed to finally snap Nick out of his surrender. He turned to the door to give a half hearted attempt at unlocking it, right before they heard the door shut again and a pair of footsteps shuffle out.

A light switch was flicked on, dousing them in bright light. George scanned the room for the source of the sound.

His captor was standing in front of one of the doors, wielding a hammer in one hand and a remote in the other.

He wasn't wearing a mask, but his face was concealed, as if a veil had been draped over it. The light hitting him seemed to completely avoid only his face, leaving it plunged in shade instead.

"Ah, Nick. Nice of you to visit. To what do I owe the favor?"

Sapnap pushed himself up, his last bits of resolve holding his body upright.

He whispered to George, just quietly enough so only the two of them would hear it. "I'm going to try and distract him. When he's fighting me, I want you to grab the keys and stab him. Can you do that?"

George nodded. He was unsure in his abilities, but now wasn't the time to express that. Both of their lives were on the line.

"Okay." Sapnap whispered. "Here goes nothing."

In a flash, he barrelled full speed into Clay's body. He moved with the same agility that he'd demonstrated the fateful night of George's capture. Although he supposed they were on the same team now.

The murderer attempted to sidestep the charge, but he was a second too late. He was dragged down onto the ground, but recovered with inhumane strength and flipped over so that he was towering over the other man.

George took the chance to sneak up behind the two. Just as Clay raised the hammer to deliver a devastating blow, he readied the bundle of keys he had grabbed and drove it forward to plunge into the back of the psycopath's head.

The strike bounced off, just a few milimeters away from the surface. George thrust the keys forward again, but that attempt also turned out to be futile as his hand was deflected by an invisible forcefield.

Clay's hand came down with full force onto Nick's skull, bashing into it with a dull crack. Blood started to trickle out of the wound, spreading in different directions and flowing down onto the floor.

George could only stare in disbelief as his captor turned to him, brandishing the remote from before.

Fuck. He still had the shock collar on.

With a press of a button, excruciating pain ran down his body in electric currents, knocking him unconscious.


	17. The Chariot

Clay had had experience with his victims following the familiar paths to their demise. Besides rare exceptions, all humans acted so similarly that the encounters mixed together into a bland grey mush. None of them had been distinguishable, special enough to really stand out and make an impact on him.

Except for Nick. He'd stayed completely silent during the whole ordeal, keeping his mouth shut. It was quite unusual, seeing him so tight lipped when he was an extremely talkative person. Though he supposed talking wasn't so easy with a cracked skull.

Clay pulled his chin up with the hilt of his dagger. The face moved, but the eyes remained cast down, refusing to meet him.

"Cat got your tongue?"

No answer. He didn't expect the situation to turn out any other way - after all, people were always so hell-bent on ruining his fun.

The room wasn't silent, though. Muffled noises were coming from behind him, presumably from George that had woken up and was now struggling against his new bindings and gag.

He hated seeing him that way, but that night had been a turning point for their tale. All he'd done was show generosity and kindness as an ideal host, and George had returned the favor with deceit.

Although, it wasn't entirely George's fault. Nick had probably tripped him up, slyly turning him to his delusions to steal him away.

That was what had to have happened. The dealer had set his eyes on the product and come back to retrieve it after feeling regretful about their trade.

He turned around to take the bundled up cloth out of George's mouth to let him speak.

"Please. Y-You can't do this. You can't-" His voice rose in a surge of panic. "I beg you. Forgive him, I'll do anything, I'll-"

Forgiveness. A disgusting concept. One for the feeble minded, those who would sooner blind themselves and turn their back to the truth rather than take matters into their own hands.

Clay had always prided himself in being the latter type of person. If there was ever time to take action, now was it.

Nick had betrayed him. He'd eased off, just a little bit, and that had been a window of opportunity for the traitor to weasel through and try to take George away from him.

He watched the man strapped down to the surgical table with curiosity his eyes. Gone were the sparks of untamed excitement he'd feel every time he got a fresh prey. All that was left now was anger, pure and undisguised.

It numbed his entire body, leaving him only one point of focus. The wet, labored breaths mixed together with George's pleas faded into the background as he ran his eyes up and down the deep gash etched into Nick's skull. The first of many, he decided.

He'd delivered quite a powerful blow, but by now he'd mastered the art of knocking a person out without actually killing them. Despite how devastating the damage looked, it wasn't enough.

None of his usual tricks seemed appealing. All the tools and toys scattered around his shelves... Unoriginal. Bland.

He needed something new. A fresh element to liven up the dull play. Something vibrant and bold. It couldn't be anything he'd incorporated into his killings before.

A quick look at the vast array of his livelihood was all it took to let out a dissatisfied hum. None seemed suitable for a special occasion like this one. None sparked the flame that usually fueled his movements.

He glanced at the man on the table, growing more and more unstable by the second. He was losing a lot of blood, and even though bleeding out wasn't a particularly merciful way to end someone's life, it didn't match up to Clay's high standards.

George was there, and the display had to be top notch. A lesson needed to be taught, preferably in a way he'd never forget.

George.

A weapon he'd overlooked.

It'd be different this time, though. There'd be no hallucinogens involved, no delirium-inducing drugs. Just the two of them, and a body to mangle.

Maybe the fresh method to liven up the play had been right under his nose the whole time. Sitting behind him, begging for mercy for the new prey.

He was completely clueless as to how George could feel empathy for his "friend" even after being sold out and quite literally left for dead.

His plan to pull him into the fun might have turned out to be fruitless, since George didn't seem like the type of person to jump at joining his hobby without being under the influence, even as vengeance.

The prospects of performing his next kill with another one of his future victims by his side, digging their greedy hands into warm flesh with curious eyes... was thrilling to think about, to say the least.

He kneeled down in front of George. The pleas hadn't ceased, although they were a little harder to hear behind the panic. Clay placed his hand on George's shoulder to cease the sound.

Normally he'd be repulsed at such a public display of weakness, but he craved more every time George let his defenses crack. He relished every moment his guard was lowered, enthralling and beckoning him to come closer and deal the destructive blow.

He had to hold off for now, however, as tempting as it was to take George's life with his own hands. When the time came, he'd go all out, making him feel pain he'd never felt before, crumbling from pure agony.

As soon as his fingers made contact with the fabric of George's shirt, he quieted down for a split second, giving Clay just enough time to get his words in. "I want you to assist me."

Confused eyes met his request, as if he'd proposed the most absurd thing ever spoken on earth.

Once no response came, Clay spoke again. "I want you to take part in the kill with me. It'll be fun."

George drew back and tilted his head to the side in pure disbelief. His mouth slackened with incredulity as he moved his lips in silent words he couldn't manage to let out.

"I... What?" His expression turned sour just as Clay was starting to relish the bewilderment. "Go to hell you fucking psychopath. I'm not doing anything with you."

"Well, you sure seemed eager the first time you killed." Clay let out a disappointed sight. That response was to be expected, especially from someone as stubborn as George. "Well, alright. If you refuse to participate, I'll make you watch."

Clay walked over to the shelves to pick out an execution method. Anything bland would do. It's not like there was any excitement surrounding the kill without George by his side - he was merely purging a defiant parasite.

Just went to show how untrustworthy every human was. Loyal like a dog as long as you had something to offer and as soon as that changed - they'd turn their back on you to chase after a bigger treat.

The desire to have more... Clay supposed he related. At first he'd settled for petty "justice" killings, and then delved deeper and deeper into his hobby until he wasn't satisfied anymore. Until he craved more.

He glanced over at George. Oh, what he wouldn't give to find out what was going on in that brain of his. Was he scared? Angry? He hoped it was the latter. That always resulted in an entertaining show.

He kneeled down in front of George's seat. He didn't look particularly happy about his reinforced bindings. Twice as sturdy and complicated.

Almost instinctively, his hand reached up to rest on George's cheek. It felt cold, of course, like everything else. But if he focused hard enough, he could almost remembered what it felt like to touch another human. Warm, comforting... Foreign feelings that he missed so dearly.

"George, you have to watch."

When that didn't get a reaction, he placed his second hand on the other side of his face, pulling it down so that they could make eye contact. Or rather, so that he could look into George's eyes. The mask was back on now. It had been foolish of him to even make the mistake of getting caught without it in the first place.

It was of no use. George was feeling stubborn, and Clay didn't feel like diverting attention from the main kill to punish an incompliant captive.

There was an indescernible jumble of pained groans and grumbles behind him as he searched for a weapon. It was a miracle Nick was still holding on. By a thread, but still. Really made one wonder what he even had to live for at this point.

His trusty dagger caught his eye. He'd retrieved it from the living room, discarded behind the couch, presumably when George started helping with the front door.

Although it was odd that he'd disregarded the only weapon that could actually do harm to Clay rather than an ordinary one. George thought he'd been slick with the keys, but Clay knew. He'd felt the futile attempts to breach through his defensive veil, as a tingle on the back of his head.

George had taken a liking to the dagger - he'd have to keep that in mind. Maybe he'd be more willing to participate if Clay used it to finish off the kill?

A quiet voice spoke up. "Don't punish him. Please." Clay turned around to see George, trembling like a leaf as he made his request. "I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me."

Clay let out a small puff of air through his nose in amusement. "You defied me."

Wide brown eyes finally met his. They were soft, and terrified, and so vulnerable. Like the eyes of a deer in the headlights. "No, I-"

"You tried to rebel. To go against me. You, of all people, should know that I don't like when someone does that. You've had first-hand experience, haven't you?"

George refused to meet his eyes again. Slowly, he dipped his head in a half-nod.

"So why'd you do it?"

The man in front of him let out a shaky sigh. "I... I don't know." He took a long, winded breath. "I guess I had hope."

Clay kneeled down in front of the chair to invade personal space. On purpose, of course - it was all a ploy to assert dominance. He had to employ little mind tricks here and there to really plant the seeds of helplessness.

"Hope?" He interlaced their fingers together. The man flinched against his touch, as always. Clay supposed he had every reason to. "For what?"

George sniffled. Was he crying?

"To... leave. I guess. I know that's impossible, but..." He looked up with glossed over eyes. He was doing his best to hold the tears back, but it wouldn't work for long. "I really, _really_ wanted to."

That was odd. Sure, the place lacked some luxuries. A bed, entertainment, human contact... But to _leave_ altogether? That was a brash decision. Clay had done his best to be hospitable, and this was how the favor had been returned.

"Enough to sacrifice your friend?"

George shook his head, lips pressed in a thin line. Presumably to keep a sob from slipping out. Clay had seen the attempt countless times, on countless faces. But it never worked. Every single one of them reached their breaking point under Clay's fingertips.

"No... No. Which is why I'm begging you. Please." The fingers around his hand tightened. "Let him go."

"George... You know I can't do that." What little hope was left in George's demeanor completely disappeared and the hold on his hand slackened. "Even if I wanted to... He's minutes away from dying."

George sniffled. "Can't you... stop time or something? I know you can do that. To save him. Please."

The blind pursuit of the best possible outcome always struck Clay as odd. He'd known George for weeks, and still - his sheer will to just _survive_ never ceased to amaze him.

"Oh, George... You can't defy death. You know that. No amount of effort can save you from the end of the line. Everyone has to meet their end, at some point."

It seemed the last bit of George's resolve crumbled with that statement as he let his first sob slip. The first tear, followed by many, slid down his cheek.

Clay loved the sight. He'd never admit it, knowing George's stubbornness - he'd probably vow to never cry again in his life or something equally ridiculous. But he relished the look of complete helplessness and despair on the face in front of him. It always came last, after all the attempts had been foiled.

He just wanted to dig his nails in that flawless skin, breaking the surface to let a little red trickle out. Just a little bit. But he knew he wouldn't be able to contain himself and end up breaking his toy, so he refrained. For now, at least.

"Oh! I know what a suitable tool to finish the job would be." He jolted up, eyes instantly darting to the set of keys he'd picked up after hauling the two of them to their spots. "Ironic, isn't it?"

He'd have loved nothing more than to stay and watch the tears on George's face trickle down and down and down until there was no more left. But Nick probably only had a couple more minutes to live, judging from the amount of blood he'd lost and how he was fading in and out of consciousness.

The keys loudly jangled as he spun the keyring around his finger absentmindedly. There wasn't enough time to ponder what a suitable spot to plunge them into was, so he just went with his gut instinct.

Ha. _Gut_ instinct. He sure cracked himself up sometimes.

With a couple seconds to raise his hand into the air to prepare for the strike, he plunged the jagged edge of the keys down, right in the middle of Nick's stomach.

The makeshift weapon hadn't been long enough to keep his hand away from the barrage of blood that instantly spluttered out of the split skin. His fist came back red, but it wasn't like he minded much. It was his favorite part of the job, after all.

He took the time before his second blow to steal a quick glance at George, who had slouched over in his seat as far as his restraints allowed him to, shaking his head over and over again.

A sign of shock. Subconscious denial, the human brain's desperate attempt to block out what was happening.

"Well, you reap what you sow, George." He dropped his hand back down again to make a second gash, although unsure if the man was still alive or not. "I hope this teaches you a lesson. Two people are dead because of your actions now. Are you willing to add more to the pile?"

There was no response. Just the repeated shaking of the head and continuous, quiet mumbling. Had he already broken George?

He drove the key into the tattered flesh for a third time, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the whimpering man for a sign of emotion.

Nothing. Any further display he could put on would be fruitless, it seemed. His one and only audience member was out of it.

"Fine, let's wrap this up." He unclasped the restraints on the surgical table, pushing Nick off the surface and into a body bag. "Don't want to spoil you with _too_ much fun, you know?"

He eyed the second body in the corner of the room. He'd left George alone with a corpse for so long. That probably wasn't too good for mental health.

After a short pause, an idea popped into his head. "Oh, right. I wasn't planning on making this anything special..." He walked over to his ornate box and after a few seconds of sifting through it, he retrieved a card. "But I can't help myself. It just... fits so well."

He had to wonder whether George had caught up with what was going on. He was smart, but whether he was smart enough to figure out the time conundrum that surrounded the house was uncertain.

"The Chariot!" He held it up with a flourish. It depicted a brave warrior, driving a chariot. "Look at how he's standing. With a victorious crown on his head, poised with his head held high. He's all about taking action, isn't he?" He flipped the card around to sigh wistfully. "But he's not holding the reins to the chariot. He's all brute force, but he doesn't know who's truly in control."

He must've been so alone down in the basement... Nothing to keep him entertained, no one to talk to. It was certainly impressive how he hadn't already gone insane with sensory deprivation.

"See these two sphinx here? Black and white. Opposing sides, united as one force under dire circumstances." He smirked. "It's truly fitting. The Chariot - upright, in this case - would be a perfect pick for what took place here. Willpower, determination... But it also needs to represent success."

The thought of George helplessly curled up, losing hope by the second, lit a fire inside of him. Seeing his guest in despair was like a match that struck sparks onto the embers in his heart. It was exciting, in an entirely new, unfamiliar way.

"Reversed, it stands for opposition. Lack of direction. There sure was a lot of that." He snorted. "I suppose I'll leave it up to interpretation. Like all art, it's open to speculation."

By now, George had eased up on the head movements, but an occasional tic darted across his face. He didn't really blink - more so twitch his eyelids every once in a while.

Clay walked over to pluck a hair out of George's head.

"Just in case I need to plant some evidence. Wouldn't want the cops to become disheartened." He leaned down to place a kiss on George's cheek, still wet with tears. He relished the feeling. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He doubted George could hear anything. Or if he could, there was no way he'd be able to keep track of time until the next day.

Either way, he had to remember to ease up on the teasing. Humans were fragile. After a short moment of consideration, he undid the bindings on George's hands.

He hoisted one body bag after the other over his shoulder and headed out into the night to set up his art display.


	18. Determination

Some days, reasoning with himself felt like a battle. He was split - a part of him wanted to stubbornly push forward and persist, just to defy the odds that were stacked against him.

And then... there was the question of why. Was there really a point? Had he sunk too far into his delirium to adjust back to the life outside the damp concrete walls, in the off chance he managed to make it out alive?

There was an easy way out. An escape method that didn't need to involve walking out the door.

There was a vast array of various weapons lining the shelves. Everything he'd need to execute his plan. Anything from a blade sharp enough to deliver a deep gash across his own throat and bleed out - just like the man whose life he'd taken, or substances to sedate himself into a permanent slumber.

Hell, he'd even take a scalpel to the guts and scoop every last bit of his own insides out at this point, if it meant salvation.

The two opposing sides were eating at him, clawing their way inside his brain as a constant reminder of his situation. And yet, neither of them moved forward nor back, poised on a ledge and stubbornly hanging on, in hopes that the other one would teeter off and fall.

As much as he wanted to take the latter route, he wasn't willing to turn a blind eye to one main flaw that kept him from delving deep into his half-baked plan.

His mind flashed with images of a human-sized bundle of scrap fabric in the corner of the room, then his best friend, bleeding out on a surgical table under a psycopath.

It was funny, how he'd thought a year back that the biggest regret of his life would be dropping out of college to pursue the goal of 'finding himself', only to discover the time wasted chasing after the cliché could've been better spent on literally anything else.

Although that dreamer side of him had kept thinking of what could've been. Of what the future had in store for him.

This. This was what fate had deemed appropriate to bestow upon him. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips and faded into the complete nothingness that was the basement.

And now, he was quite literally staring at his biggest regret. Oh, how he wished he could've gone back in time and just turned a deaf ear to Nick's words.

He kept his eyes focused on the opposite wall until blank blots started to fill his vision. He wasn't sure what he was straining to see.

At first, just an hour after the incident, when his tears had just dried up and the trembles running down his body had finally eased up, he'd taken to fiddling with his leg binds and sitting on the floor with his back against one of the walls, eyes bleary and too tired to focus.

Then, a couple hours later, he'd made his first move with a cautious hand next to him to push him up to stand on shaky legs.

He'd been more determined than ever before in his life. As confidence poured into his movements over the paralyzing shock, he'd walked over to the headset and gone through every single memory he could stomach until he sunk to his knees again, quivering like a brown, decaying leaf against a harsh breeze.

There hadn't been anything "of value", technically speaking. Nothing that could serve as the key that would turn the lock of the front door and let him escape. Just meaningless little tidbits of Clay's everyday life. Even if the memories weren't his, they still took a heavy toll on his state.

That would've been the end of it, if every single one of his thoughts hadn't been tainted with the images of the body. And as soon as the image of Nick's bloodied, tattered skin plagued his subconscious, the memories would twist and turn into the grizzly murder scene, forcing him to replay the events over and over.

And then, after tossing the headset towards the far end of the room and promising himself never to go through the memory archives again, he'd slump back onto the floor and wrap his arms tight around his knees as the seconds ticked by, again and again.

Excruciatingly slowly.

But they passed, and blended into minutes, eventually hours. Those hours turned to days, and although not that much, it was incredibly painful to just... sit through nothingness for that long.

He'd become even more aware of his isolation when days went without a trace of the outside world - no sound, no light, nothing. If he'd resented Clay's presence before, now he was craving even the slightest form of human contact.

He had tried to pass the time in sleep. In fact, that was one of the first things that had come to mind.

But it was as if he was stuck in some sick limbo. A wink of sleep seemed as distant and unreachable as nothing else, and as much as he yearned for rest, closing his eyes did nothing.

He had to wonder whether what Clay said about setting up his 'display' was the truth or not. He'd thought it would only be a day until he'd have to bear the imposing presence again, but that wasn't the case.

Fatigue hadn't even set in after the third day. And by then, acceptance had taken its place.

Acceptance and... determination.

He'd do everything in his power. Everything it took to bring The Daybreak Killer down, as impossible as it sounded. He was up against something inhumane, but the adrenaline in his veins blurred out the insecurity.

He'd do it for his future, and all the futures the murderer had selfishly taken for his own entertainment.

A familiar headset peeked at him from a box he'd hidden it behind out of spite. Even thinking about traversing that unholy amalgamation of dark memories sent a shiver down his spine.

But he had to do it, didn't he? He was in a prime spot to investigate the psychopath's past to secure his life, and he was letting fear get in the way.

A little encouragement was needed. Maybe there wasn't a person around willing to give that to him - after all, the only person around was his captor and George doubted he'd be too ecstatic to assist in his own downfall.

Maybe a little powder would do the trick. Just a pinch of whatever it was that had filled Clay with enough confidence to babble on for their first few days together, and whatever had convinced Nick to trade in a human life for a small box of it.

No one would notice if a little of it was gone, right? He was only taking a pinch, after all.

He walked over to the shelves, popping lids up and back down to peek at their contents. Locks of clumsily chopped dark hair, tubs of paint, random pharmaceutical drugs, pins, needles...

And finally, powder. He slowly dipped his fingers in only to have the substance cling to his fingers as he pulled it up. It seemed this was the only way to scrape together enough courage to go through the memories, and the logical part of him was trying to convince him not to go through with it.

Really, would it be worth the side effects? He'd seen it first-hand - the drug was specially made to be highly addictive. But one try wouldn't hurt.

He brought his fingers up to his face, unsure how to ingest it. After a few moments of awkwardly turning it side to side, he placed the light blue dust on his tongue.

And waited.

A few side effects had been instant - his insecurity had slipped away, only to be replaced with nothing short of euphoria. The racing beat of his heart pounded in his ears, under his fingertips, sending warmth throughout his body.

He rushed through the steps in a hurry in fear that the symptoms wouldn't last long - the liquid, the headset, the blood - and sat down in his usual corner of the room.

He'd spent way too long jumping back and forth between memories before this. It was scarring, and fruitlessly so. He hadn't gotten any more answers than questions.

If he were to find out what was really happening... he had to start from the beginning. The day he was captured.


	19. Back To The Roots

If he were to find out what was really happening... he had to start from the beginning. The day he was captured. God, he hated referring to his kidnapping as that, but that's what he was - a prisoner, captured like an animal in a zoo for a stranger to pore over and examine while he watched, helplessly.

But that's exactly why he was doing this. He'd go through the memories, he'd subject himself to the torment, all to unearth the past and the key out of here.

He stood in a familiar field - the limbo between the real world and that of the past. A mockingly peaceful scene of greenery and songbird.

He felt something warm trickle down his lip. He swiped at it with a finger that came back wet, so he could only assume it was a nosebleed. Possibly a side effect of the drug.

The beginning of all this. The fateful night of his capture. He repeated the words in his head until he was transported to the alleyway again, although this time... he was sitting next to a masked figure on a fire escape ladder.

The man gracefully twirled a switchblade in between his fingers, impatience barely showing through his poised stance. A heavy-looking hammer laid next to him.

Two pairs of footsteps echoed into the dark alley - one sloppy and unorganized, the other determined.

"Dude, a creepy bar. Really?" George heard his own slurred voice in the distance. "You know the drinks are free back there, right?"

The first firework went off with a loud bang. Clay looked up at the sky as it burst in an array of exquisite colors and sparks. The beginning of the firework display.

Two silhouettes came into view below them. One was himself, hunched over and clearly under the influence of an ungodly amount of alcohol. And the other was his friend.

Nick stopped, pointing towards a dilapidated door on the ground floor of the building which the fire escape belonged to.

"Right there." He stood aside to make way for George.

"Dude, I'm not going in there." The past him turned around, clearly suspicious. "It's like a... crack den or something. Let's go."

But he'd only taken one step when Nick's hand shot out to hold him in place. He couldn't see anything from this angle, but he remembered the unnerving toothy grin on that face like new.

Nick jerked his hand backwards, making past George stumble closer to the dingy motel building. "Come on now, George." He tilted his head to the side. "What happened to being the adventurous one?"

George knew what was about to come next. The futile escape attempt. He watched himself push his friend with all his might, barely slipping from his grip and making a mad run for the light. He stumbled over his own feet a couple of times, the intoxication clearly dawdling his movements.

"George! Get back here, right now!" the usually collected man sounded agitated, like a kid whose prize had gotten away from them.

From this angle, his movements were even slower than he'd thought. He'd barely made it halfway across the alley when Clay vaulted over the fire escape railing and closed the distance between them inhumanely fast with a hammer in his hand and then...

A dull crack and George was out.

This was the part he'd been unable to see before. The pool of blood forming underneath his own head as he lay unconscious on the cold asphalt, and the two figures quickly getting to work on getting him inside the "motel" door.

He wasted no time trailing Clay and making his way over the railing and to the ground. He fell slowly - almost gliding down like a feather. It seemed the memory wouldn't allow his actual body to get hurt.

The door was disguised on the outside to resemble a dingy motel entrance. He slipped through the open door, covered with locks from the inside. The interior was familiar - vintage, with ornate floral wallpaper, a green couch facing the fireplace on the other side of the room.

Nick was carrying him, the murderer being too busy searching for something.

"Fuck, he's so heavy. Jesus." He watched his own body drop to the ground with a thud. "Whoops."

"Be careful. You're not getting paid the full price if you damage the product."

Nick rolled his eyes when Clay's back was turned. "Fine." He took another look at George's unconscious body, floorboards caked with blood from the wound on the back of his head. "You're gonna have to do some impromptu head surgery on that. Looks rough."

A thoughtful hum. "I think I remember how to do that." George crouched near his own body. "Mind leaving the leaflet in my bedroom?"

He ran a finger across his past self's forehead, almost in disbelief that he was really looking at himself. His fingers went right through the skin, like a ghost's.

"Yeah, no problem." There was a quiet crumple of paper as Nick rummaged in his pocket, finally retrieving a page ripped out of a notebook. "I wrote it on one of those notepads the hotel staff leaves in your room. Super fancy stuff."

Clay only bothered with a curt reply. "Right. The leaflet, please?"

The psychopath's eyes briefly flashed to George - the real, present George next to the physical one, and looked away just as fast. Clay couldn't have been looking at him - he was invisible, after all. But he couldn't help but feel unnerved.

"Damn, man. You're no fun."

As soon as Nick disappeared behind a door, Clay bent one of his knees to get down on the ground next to George's unconscious body. He held his gloved hand out, hovering it hesitantly above the bloody skin.

Finally, he lowered it to run his cold fingers across the surface of George's cheek. Carefully, slowly. His movements were unsure. Almost fearful.

The leaflet. He had to see what was on it. George walked over to the door, testing if he could move through the door just like he did with his own skin. Surely enough, his hand passed right through and his body soon followed.

The bedroom was as regal as the rest of the interior in the house. Tall windows, ornate wallpaper, golden accents on the furniture...

And a vanity mirror across from it. The same one from Clay's memories. His first kill.

Although the bed seemed to have been replaced, along with the floorboards and the walls, the chipped vanity had been kept in place. Maybe it held a sentimental value to the owner.

George looked over to his side to see Nick posing for a selfie with a small golden statue from one of the shelves lining the walls. He lowered the phone a few times, only to put on a new face and try again.

It was so... human. So simple, yet so full of trial and error. Who could've guessed a while ago that a simple view of his friend struggling with a corny selfie would've had such an effect on George. Yet here he was, struggling against tears welling up behind his eyes.

A familiar piece of paper lay on the vanity to George's right. He instinctively tried to pick it up, but his fingers went right through the table, so he settled on uncomfortably bending to read it instead.

A note, scrawled in chicken scratch. He could recognize that god awful handwriting anywhere.

"Hey man, I know you've been looking for a proper descendant for Varraas once you... y'know... _retire_. And I think I found the perfect guy for the job. He's been my friend for years and trust me, no one would be a better fit than him. That is, if you manage to convince him. He's as stubborn as a mule. Who knows, maybe that's a good thing. I know you enjoy those types."

For an informational leaflet, it sure as hell confused George. He'd expected a more cut-to-the-chase list. His height, age, name...

Though he supposed a serial killer didn't need to know any of those things. That would be fruitless information, considering the person the leaflet was about was sure to end up dead.

George looked around the room, trying not to let his confusion get the best of him. Now was not the time to pore over the contents of the letter.

There was a pile of books in the corner in front of him, next to the vanity. Upon rounding the corner around the table, more stacks came into view.

Although it was nothing in the ordinary - thick, tattered books that looked like something straight out of a fantasy movie. Most of them seemed to be handwritten and handbound.

He could read the titles just fine - some about dark arts, some about sailor knots, some about archaic prisons. But he couldn't open any of them, his fingers slipping right through the covers.

There was an open book sitting at the very bottom of the pile, lumps of coal and pencils lining its sides. George kneeled down to get a better look at it.

The pages were handwritten. 'The Devil' written at the top in perfect calligraphy. There was a half-finished coal sketch on the first page. A horned demonic creature suspended in mid-air, with two leashed human figures on either side.

George remembered the card assigned to his first kill. He had to wonder if tricking him into the murder was all pre-meditated. All planned to play out how the psychopath wanted it to.

On the second page, in the same flawless handwriting, was some text.

"One of my favorites. A symbol of what happens when you give into your dark desires. The people on his either side are bound in chains. Unable to escape at first sight, but are they, really? Their bindings are loose and removable. The only thing keeping them here is their untamed thirst to destroy and plunder. A raw desire to be in power, to satisfy themselves through inhumane means."

George didn't like the parallels his brain was subconsciously drawing. He followed Nick back out of the room and watched the two of them set past George's body up in the basement.

He knew the rest. There was nothing left to see there. He needed something more important, something to find out who exactly his captor was so he could get under his skin and burrow into his brain to use his weak spots against him.

His weak spots. There had to be something in the memories that had once broken Clay and would again, should George have needed to.

But then again, he could find out about the strange name in the leaflet. He'd been chosen as a... descendant for Varraas, whatever that meant. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought he was being recruited into a cult.

There was a sound of the front door opening in the distance. George turned around to look at the entrance.

The locks didn't seem to move, yet the sound of them clicking open persisted. Surely there was no one else in this world that knew about this place. He hadn't seen a third person when he woke up either.

Then, the sound of the front door creaking open. The one in the memory stayed shut.

The one in the memory. That had to mean...

The actual front door had opened. He only had a few moments to act.


	20. Deal

In a flash, he ripped the headset off, trying not to get too disoriented by the sudden change of scene. His eyes scanned for a spot to hide it, when his instinct settled on a patch of shelf space between the wall and a dusty box.

Wooden stairs creaked from the other side of the door. They usually didn't - the psychopath had memorized every inch of the floorboards too well to step on the noisy bits, but it was almost as if he was announcing his presence by intentionally making a sound.

Movements fueled by the heat on his face, he scrambled to curl into himself in a corner and maintain the most neutral expression he could scrape together from the emotions running laps around him.

He had just wrapped his arms around his legs and burrowed his head in the nook between them when the door creaked open. Slowly at first, letting the first strip of light seep in, then another, until it swung to the side.

George watched the floor through a gap between where his arm wrapped tightly around his leg. He'd tossed the headset into the depths of a random shelf as fast as humanly possible, and was now waiting with bated breath. If he played his cards right, he'd be off scot-free.

A pair of footsteps unhurriedly trailed from the door until they came into what limited view George had.

"George."

That voice. That haunting voice that always managed to make him shiver from fearful anticipation no matter how many times it uttered his name.

He didn't dare answer. He was in no place to, after seeing what he'd seen. Or rather, what Clay had seen. His trembling hands were clutching onto his own body in an attempt to steel themselves.

"You're awfully quiet." The voice spoke again, oddly clear. It was as if a blurry barrier had been lifted from it. It sounded entirely like Clay, and at the same time, nothing like him.

George slightly lifted his head as the man kneeled down in front of him. Just enough to see the fresh change of clothes adorning his upper body, but nothing else. He moved with the precision and calculation of a wild predator, invading his space.

A cold hand wrapped around the back of his neck, fingers lightly digging into the side of his throat as a reminder of the power they held.

"Why won't you talk to me?" George could tell Clay slightly ducked his head to make eye contact by the shift of pressure on his neck, so he brushed off the attempt by averting his gaze. "Look at me while I'm speaking to you."

The voice, much like the hand menacingly coiled around his skin, was chilly. Enough to make him shudder against it, and he cursed himself that he let fear show.

"I _said_..." The hold tightened, pressing into his throat just enough to draw a breathless gasp out. "Look at me while I'm speaking to you."

George's eyes flitted up for a split second. Just enough to see what was in front of him and recoil in shock.

A face.

A completely ordinary, human face.

With human skin, human eyes... Just so painfully... normal.

The mask was gone, and that menacing, painted blank stare had been replaced by a seemingly harmless, but a far more frightening sight.

Green eyes creased as the man's lips thinned into a smile. "That's better, isn't it?"

"You're not- You- The mask, I mean..." George's heart sped up, as if trying to escape from his ribcage and flee far, far away from the situation. "You have a..."

"A face?" Clay huffed in a half-laugh. "Of course I do..." The hand slid up from his neck to lay at his cheek as the intimidating presence took in every part of George's face, as if he'd been the one unmasked. "Just like you."

Was this what had made the cop recoil in pure fear? Those haunted words echoed in his mind.

 _What the fuck are you_ , Scott had exclaimed, eyes wide with nothing short of terror.

George could see how Clay's lips parted as he drank in every feature of his face, how his expression sobered up while he ran his fingers along the length of George's jaw... Eyes full of awe, as if regarding a priceless piece of art displayed just for him.

He could only wonder what that seemingly normal face looked like while caked in blood and high on an adrenaline rush during a murder.

George mirrored his facial expression, although in shock rather than endearment. "I... don't understand."

The movements stopped, and for a moment, their eyes met. "Hm?"

"Why would you..." He leaned against the wall, struggling to turn his tongue around, as if it'd suddenly gained half a ton of weight. His subconscious worked faster than his logical thinking, and his brain had just made a conclusion he did not like one bit. "...Fuck."

An eyebrow quirked up in a mix of confusion and amusement in front of him. Soft hair draped down to frame the sides of his face. Light brown... maybe dirty blonde? George couldn't tell in the dim light.

"Why would I show my face, is that what you're asking?" George rolled his head against the wall in a small nod. "Well, because..." There was a silent moment of thought. "I'm not sure. I guess I just didn't want to unnerve you. The mask is unnecessary when it's just the two of us."

 _Fuck you and your warped logic_ , George wanted to shout. He'd killed his best friend in front of him and now wanted to gain trust by, what, tossing off his weird mask?

But his brain was slowly coming to a realization as a pit settled into his stomach. The mask coming off could only mean one thing. It hadn't been blind trust. It hadn't been a meaningful gesture, or a risk at all. A calculating psychopath like Clay _wouldn't_ have risked his face getting out to the authorities.

It had been a threat. A power play. It meant that there was no way George would make it out alive to tell anyone about it.

"You're bleeding." Clay hummed after a while.

All the new information had swept the floor from under George's feet, throwing him into yet another pit to claw his way out of. Just another problem, another sick power play to deal with and brush off.

He was brought back to the real world only when a thumb reached up to wipe the blood away from below his nose.

He had to figure out an excuse for that. There really _was_ no reasonable explanation as to why he'd been sitting against a wall, out of his chair, nose bleeding and pupils dilated like crazy. At least, he assumed they were. His eyes couldn't focus for shit.

Which... in turn made making out the features of the murderer's face a lot harder. If he were to escape right now, he'd be of no use to a police sketch artist. What would he say, that the man had dark hair, green eyes and the rest of him looked like an ink blot because of how high off of underground drugs he was?

Finally, he mumbled a pathetic response. "Hm, yeah. Must be the... dry air."

With the man's face unmasked, he could see skeptical eyes narrow. "Right." The hand from his cheek lowered to retrieve a washcloth from a nearby shelf, then return to his face. "Here. Hold this and tilt your head forward."

A shadow darted across the entirety of the room at the speed of light out of the corner of George's eyes, but when he turned, he was greeted by the same gloomily lit basement as before.

His mind replayed the events of his delirium-induced murder. He'd been drugged up on god knows what back then, and he'd spotted the same black spots darting in and out of his vision. It had to be a side effect of the drug, just like the blood running down his cupid's bow.

"George..." Clay started softly, waiting for George to look up from behind the now bloody bundle of washcloth. "Back then, you mentioned something I've been thinking about ever since. Something along the lines of having hope."

George stared back silently. He had to wonder if this was a set up to yet another power play to shoot his morale down.

"And of course I know it's natural for people in distress to be blindly hopeful. Hope comes in naivety, as I like to say." Black blotted eyes had been replaced with even more piercing human ones that put an odd emphasis on the owner's words. "But hearing that you risked your life... Well, actually, _sacrificed_ your friend's life for that hope struck me as odd."

George half contemplated bringing up the strange name from the memories. Or maybe he could boast that he knew the location of the building, just to see those eyes widen in shock for a split moment. But he doubted that would've resulted in his favor. Or him being alive, at all.

Now it was just a matter of time to try to get the word out to the authorities. That wouldn't be an easy task - the farthest from it. With no phone, no access to the outside world... It was impossible.

"You said that you want to leave. Which is why I'm asking this." He leaned back to take a seat on the floor across from George. They were seemingly on the same level, but he was still towering over. "Why?"

George half-expected laughter to erupt after the last bit. Clay's mocking one or his own bitter, tear-streaked chuckle, he wasn't sure. But there was a dead silence that he had to fill.

"What?" He croaked out, finally.

A pair of eyes stared back at him expectantly. "Why do you want to leave?"

George lowered the washcloth to see if the bleeding had stopped. He looked down at the red stains to pass the time, trying to conjure up an answer that would sound reasonable to a psychopath devoid of all common sense.

"Because..." He kept his eyes downcast, voice cracking on the first word. "I don't want to be stuck down here forever."

"You're not going to-"

"I know." George interjected. "I'm going to die, inevitably. You don't have to rub it in." He took a shaky breath and looked up, still averting eye contact, to the ceiling. "But I don't want to be so... so miserable. I hate it here."

For a moment of two, neither of them moved. No words were spoken, no sounds made. Until finally, George lowered his head again to look the murderer in the eyes.

There was an indescernible emotion spread across his face. George's eyes had slowly started to focus again, making out the small freckles running across the man's nose and scarcely down his neck. The rest of the trail was covered up by clothing, but George could assume it continued for a reasonable length.

He took in the sideburns on either side of his face. Not outgrown, but not nearly trimmed either. His hair had to have been cut a while ago, being just long enough to curl at the ends a little. George's eyes trailed down to the new change of clothes adorning Clay's body - surprisingly spotless given the state of his old outfit.

"Fine."

George tore his eyes away from the clean fabric of the hoodie to turn his attention to the man who'd suddenly spoken.

He waited a second or two, but no further statements came. He mentally rolled his eyes - how characteristic. Clay had to secretly love the confusion that followed his words, the silent dig and search for further meaning.

Finally, George gave in. "What?"

"I said fine." Clay repeated, as if he was stating the most self-explanatory thing. His curious eyes intently connected to George's to search for any emotion and, upon being met by only further confusion, he sighed in disappointment. "What, aren't you even a little excited?"

"I don't... understand what you're trying to say."

"You said you don't want to stay down here until the end of your existence. So you won't. You can leave, if you so _desperately_ want to." He emphasized the last sentence with a dramatic tone.

George's mouth dried up as his brain struggled to comprehend what that meant, rusty cogs slowly turning in his head in a struggle under the influence of powder.

Clay's hand shot up, index finder pointed upwards. "Although, on one condition." He paused for theatrical suspense, then continued with a sly smile when satisfied. "I come with you."

__________

"We've got a new case, Schlatt, wake up!" Wilbur rushed into the precinct with brisk strides, carrying a pile of new case files in his arms.

It was the usual, boring day at the district. With people milling around in the background, carrying around paperwork, filing paperwork, organizing paperwork... Just a whole load of paperwork. Wilbur hated every bit of it.

He neared the workstation he and his partner shared. Upon flicking a rolled up gum wrapper to the side, he pulled up a rolling chair and dumped the papers in his hold on the cluttered tabletop.

"Two college students have gone missing. It's only been several hours, but the people they were staying with are claiming it's out of character."

His partner, Schlatt, sat sprawled across his seat at a desk with his feet thrown up on top. His workspace was littered with disorganized case files, papers and cigarette butts.

"Ah, fuckin' college kids again. Always runnin' off to get shitfaced every chance they get." Schlatt grumbled, voice still gruff from his morning smoke. "How long have they been gone again?"

"Just under eight hours, but as I said, the circumstances-"

"Fuck the circumstances." Schlatt slammed a random file on the table to interrupt. "We have a load of work on our hands! Stop runnin' around to pick up even more."

Wilbur stood in front of the pile of papers and stationery, barely able to see his partner behind the mess. But he could picture every shift of his expression as he bellowed - he'd had over two years to study his face, after all.

"Now listen here, Wil." Schlatt continued. "Don't worry about it, okay? If you're really that desperate for work, I got a bunch of paperwork on here just begging to be filled out."

Wilbur threw his head back in frustration. "Schlatt, I've got a feeling about-"

"You've had a feeling about every disappearance in the past couple years. Jeez, man, you're not a clairvoyant or... whatever they call 'em. Psychic." He put his legs down to stand up, but even at this position, Wilbur easily towered over him. "I suggest you get to writing up your traffic tickets and stop worrying about dumb college kids."

That would be the end of it. Wilbur knew his partner better than anyone, and once Schlatt had made up his mind, there was no changing it. He was a good cop - there was no denying that - albeit a bit rusty. But years of sitting around the precinct unprovoked by any serious cases had left him unwilling to comply, especially with a younger detective like his partner.

"I'm just looking out for you, alright? You're a bright guy, and getting yourself into all sorts of extra work won't get you recognized. Don't waste your talents on filling a bottomless pit."

Schlatt walked away with one last wistful gaze over his shoulder. Wilbur watched him blend into the chatter coming from all around.

"I'm not a _rookie_." Wilbur muttered under his breath, far away from Schlatt's earshot, who was now helping himself to a cup of coffee from the precinct's machine. "I've got a hunch."

This was what he'd been searching for - a lucky break in his career. If this turned out to be something meaningful... He'd have a big promotion laid out in his cards.

Without wasting another second, he took a seat at the desk and started combing through the case files.


	21. Departure

It was a pleasant Tuesday afternoon. After a morning of running around on errands and doing menial tasks, it was a relief to finally sit down and focus on the case.

"Look, Schlatt." Wilbur held up a piece of paper, relief evident on his face. "I spoke to the manager of the bar the two were last sighted at. I convinced him to let me take a look at the surveillance footage."

He heard nothing but a soft grumble in response.

"...Schlatt?"

The man had dozed off in his seat, arms crossed across his chest and head thrown to the side.

Wilbur placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Schlatt, wake up!"

He loved his job, but working with someone else was a struggle sometimes. Especially someone as irresponsible as Schlatt. He was a brilliant detective, of course - a useful asset to the department. But getting him to actually use his skills was... proving to be a challenge, to say the least.

He turned back to the case file - pictures of surveillance footage and witness statements spread across a folder. Although he wasn't sure if any of them would come in handy.

Schlatt's words slowly seeped into his brain every time he tried to find a deeper meaning to the disappearances.

" _Ah, fuckin' college kids again. Always runnin' off to get shitfaced every chance they get."_

But was that really what had happened? Two people parting from the group to sneak off and get drunk? It was the day after the incident now, and if it had initially looked like a meaningless getaway, Wilbur's investigative senses were urging him to look deeper into it.

Whatever it was, he was running into a dead end. He'd have to convince his partner to cooperate somehow.

_________

George's chest tightened. Saying he was surprised to hear those words would've been an understatement. Finally being able to go out... He was incredulous.

Clay, on the other hand, seemed to draw so much enjoyment from every confused furrow of George's brows, every untrusting, blank stare that was trying to determine if this was yet another test.

But nothing came to indicate what it was. And handing his distress to the psychopath on a platter to take in wasn't a particularly favorable option, so he decided to dig for more.

"...What do you mean?"

A small smirk graced Clay's lips. "Exactly what you heard." He leaned over, lowering his voice in a conspiring tone. "I have a job I need to do. You'll come along."

A job... George didn't know why the concept of _The_ Daybreak Killer having a way to earn money seemed so odd. Maybe because he'd subconsciously elevated his presence over everything humane. To him, the need for material goods was... human. Not exactly what the man was, George assumed.

"You have a job?" George blurted out, without thinking. "What do you do?"

A soft huff of air escaped Clay's nose as his eyes crinkled in amusement. "Wouldn't you like to know." After a teasing smirk, he added, "I think you'll find out soon enough."

Images of a murderer in disguise, mindlessly tapping away at his keyboard at a 9 to 5 came up in his mind, though he doubted someone that psychotic would've settled for a job so mundane.

They lapsed into yet another silence. Clay seemed unbothered by the wordless periods. In fact, he seemed to bask in every soundless second that allowed him to take George's features in without distraction.

George, on the other hand, cleared his throat to break the uncomfortable silence with. When that didn't work to snap the man out of whatever he was thinking, he spoke up again. "So, when-"

"Wait. Before you say anything." Clay pushed himself up on his feet, holding out a hand to help George do the same. "I want to show you something."

Gloveless fingers reached down to him in a seemingly innocent offer of help. George contemplated whether to take it or not.

He would've appreciated all the help, given his legs felt like jelly from sitting on cold concrete and drug influence, but he didn't want to give Clay the satisfaction of helping him. _Or_ touch the sickeningly cold skin.

Finally, an impatient hand gripped his, and tugged him up to a stand. "We haven't got all day." The voice spoke, leading him to the door and up the stairs.

The floorboards made no noise under Clay's feet. It was as if he was gliding over them weightlessly, while the wood under George creaked and moaned like something out of a haunted mansion. It was as if the house itself was sentient, and on the side of its owner.

George shook the theory away. Out here, he had another chance to look around at the interior, and he had to take it.

Floral wallpaper, doors, green couch...

A crackling fire had been lit in the fireplace. There was a scrap of fabric hanging off the logs, somewhat resembling a torn sleeve.

George didn't even notice the man had stopped in his tracks until he turned around to scan the rest of the room.

"Now, if you're done scrutinizing my interior design, we can head over to my workspace." Clay interlaced his fingers. "Over here."

He beckoned with a hand over his shoulder as he tugged on the handle of a nearby door and let it swing open.

An oddly serene sight welcomed the two of them. There was a small arched window across from the entrance - boarded up, of course, like all the others in the house. But the various plants lining the walls made up for the lack of liveliness that the absence of sunlight brought with it.

Paintings hung in ornate, golden frames, small statues and various expensive-looking memorabilia had been meticulously spaced out on every surface meant for display, and in the center of the room, stood a sewing machine.

"I didn't really know what type of clothes you wanted." Clay started, sheepishly.

George stared dumbfounded at the heap of fabric laid out on the table. They looked... awfully similar to what he was wearing.

"So uh. I made you the same exact ones."

Sure enough, they were identic to his current clothes, albeit a lot cleaner.

He looked back at the man, then down at the clothes again. His brows furrowed as his brain searched for a suitable response. A 'thank-you' didn't seem normal for such an abnormal gesture of... kindness?

"You... made me clothes." George furrowed his brows, careful words testing the waters. "Why?"

"Well, I couldn't have you walking around like..." Clay's lips quirked up into a smile as he gestured at George. "Well, that."

Sure enough, layers of blood and grime caked the fabric of his clothes. His pants were ripped and tattered, and bruised skin peeked from behind the holes. Although a new normal for him, it was sure to turn some heads in public.

"I uh. I'm going to let you get dressed." Sudden stiffness had overcome Clay's posture, giving away his unsureness in how to act. Finally, he turned, remaining oddly still. "Come outside when you're done."

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and George was left all alone in his own company.

He stared at the sewing table. A pitcher of clean water had been neatly placed on it, alongside with a tall glass.

He hadn't been aware of how just scratchy his throat had become upon stepping out of the basement. Practically every bit of his body begged him for a drop of water.

Without thinking, he gripped the pitcher itself, not bothering to pour the water into a glass, and downed half of it breathlessly.

The chilly water trailed down his throat, but this time, he welcomed the cold. It wasn't like the familiar frozen, corpse-like skin he'd been used to. It was refreshing, breathing new life into his body with every sip.

After a few moments, he lowered it back on the table to wipe a stray droplet trickling down his lower lip. On second thought, it hadn't been a good idea to drink whatever the psycho gave him, but there wouldn't be anything in there worth worrying.

He'd had the worst of the worst. Cream of the crop of the underground substances. At this point he'd welcome any lethal poison in the water with open arms.

He caught a glimpse of the heap of fabric in front of the sewing machine again. The whole situation was a little bizarre, but his skin was practically begging for a change of clean clothes against it.

But then again... He was alone in a completely unexplored part of the house. He'd familiarized himself with every inch of the basement due to the unfortunate amount of time he'd had to traverse it bit by bit.

But this room was new. And maybe there was something Clay had overlooked, something George could use to his advantage. Or even for escape.

The windows were boarded up, and unless he suddenly got the superhuman strength to ply nails out of wood with his bare hands, he doubted that escape route would've been of any significance to him.

A tidy set of needles lay in a kit nearby, organized by length and width. There were better weapons in the basement. Not that weapons were of any use against his captor.

The escape attempt replayed in his mind. The events of that day had been plaguing him for his every waking second, but his brain took him to an entirely different bit - the keys gliding off an invisible surface just inches from the back of Clay's head.

Nothing else about the room was interesting - sure, the decorations might've captured his attention a year ago, but the definition of the word 'interesting' in his subconscious had been replaced by the scale of how effective an item would be as a weapon. Not surprising, given how rewired his brain was for survival.

He heard a pair of footsteps pacing back and forth behind the closed door. Right. If he took too long, suspicions would rise.

He liberated himself from his dirty clothes, and slipped into... well, the same exact replicas. After neatly folding the old outfit, he headed out the door.

Clay's eyes lit up as they met his. He'd stopped dead in his tracks from the pace, and was now regarding him with a soft look of endearment.

"Great." He said, joining his hands together across his chest. "You look great."

George mentally gagged, but only let a content sigh through. "I _feel_ great." As great as he could feel in the captivity of a murderer, he thought.

"Just one more thing until we can leave." Clay mused, satisfaction gracing his expression upon seeing George's entire body perk up in attention. "Follow me."

Soon, he'd feel the warmth of golden sunlight on his face. He'd bask in the chatter of bystanders that he used to resent so much, the loud honking of cars in the busy city traffic...

The man walked around him, towards the basement stairs. "Just wait here. I'll be right back." He lingered for a moment and, when he was sure George wouldn't budge, he hurriedly made his way down.

He'd experience it all. It was surreal. Just half an hour ago, he'd been going through the memory archive, hopeless for his future. And here he was now, about to take a trip outside.

It felt pathetic. _He_ felt pathetic. Like a dog wagging its tail, excited for a walk outside. But there was little he could do, besides comply and follow obediently.

And that's what he _would_ do. It wasn't just _his_ fate that was being carried by his actions now, it was all the past victims', and the potential future ones. God knows how many families were hanging on by a thread of hope now, blindly praying for justice for the stolen lives of their loved ones.

But he'd make sure there were no future cases. He'd follow and comply and wag his tail and do everything else to play into Clay's fantasy play-date, if it meant gathering information.

He could hear the muffled rummaging through boxes, and the echoes of various objects being dropped on the floor. Finally, the noise stopped, and an enthusiastic pair of feet bounded up the stairs.

The man held something up for display.

George couldn't believe his eyes. This was a new level of demeaning. Something he didn't think was possible.

"...Seriously? You're going to have me walking around in _handcuffs_ _?"_

If he'd been treated as an animal before, he'd be paraded out in public like one now. His wrist was pulled through one of the cuffs, despite his half-hearted resistance.

Clay placed a hand over his chest as he let out a theatrical gasp. "You really think I'd do that, George? No, no. Of course not." He snapped the first lock shut with a click. "It'd be far too easy for you to escape like that."

George watched the second cuff close around the psychopath's wrist.

"This is ridiculous." George reached up with his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. "It's going to turn heads! I thought that's exactly what a wanted criminal _didn't_ want!"

Clay had been watching him with nothing short of amusement this whole time. "I do love a bit of attention. Besides, it's not going to. Not where _we're_ going."

George could practically feel his pride shatter bit by bit, with every second that he felt the cold metal of the cuff jabbing into the side of his wrist.

"And that is?..."

A cold hand reached up to his cheek. "Always so impatient, George. It wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?"

George threw his head back in frustration. Right. He had to comply.

"Now then." Clay sighed, regarding the house with one last look over his shoulder, dangling a bundle of keys off his index finger. "Ready to go?"

________

Wilbur fixed the collar of his button-up shirt. He wasn't wearing his usual uniform, instead opting to don a more casual outfit. Partly not to unnerve the people he was about to question, and partly because he was getting sick of the same clothes everyday.

He knocked on the hotel room door with three short raps and waited. Schlatt was waiting outside the building. He'd scrambled up an excuse along the lines of 'needing fresh air to think about the case', but hadn't even bothered to move out of the view of the fifth floor window Wilbur was watching him smoke from.

He could hear a quiet shuffling from inside the room. The door cracked open an inch, just wide enough for someone to peek through the gap.

Looked like he had the right address. The person on the other end of the door looked young, in his early twenties. Presumably one of the college students the other two had vacationed with.

"Detective Wilbur. Nice to meet you." Wilbur introduced himself, holding out his hand for a handshake, which the other nervously accepted. The door opened completely, and the rest of the group came into view. "Mind if I ask you a few questions, maybe take a look?"

The man who'd greeted him looked back at the others in a silent question for approval and, upon being met by quiet nods, stepped aside to let Wilbur in.

The room looked expensive. Leftovers and dirty dishes from room service were strewn across the room. The group wasn't in the mood to go out to eat, Wilbur concluded. Not surprising, given the recent disappearance of their friends.

He took his time surveying the interior - carpeted floor, beds, generic art filling the empty white walls... Nothing interesting.

Finally, he turned to the tourists. "This won't take long. As I said, I just want to ask a few questions."

They gave the same nervous nod. One of them spoke up. "We'll do our best to help, Detective."

Wilbur walked over to the beds as he worked on phrasing his first question, in order not to waste time. "This is just formality, but let's start with when you last saw your friends."

Another guy spoke up. "Actually, we already gave that information on the-"

He was elbowed by the first. "He knows we already gave that info on the police report, dumbass. It's a formality."

Technically, a distraction would be a better choice for words. Wilbur didn't have a search warrant, so he took the attention off his digging by asking questions.

"Um, we... We were all kinda drunk, so I don't remember much. But uh, we went out to this party near Quayside Terrace. Not far from here, actually." He didn't seem to notice Wilbur snooping around while he wracked his brain for an answer. "And Sap- I mean Nick, one of the um... _two_." A long sigh while he regained the courage to continue. "Wasn't supposed to come. He'd seen a news report about some kind of serial killer and uh-"

Wilbur kneeled at the beds, holding up the covers dangling off the edges and ducking to peer underneath them. Nothing of interest, save for a single boot.

"He didn't want to come, basically." A third guy spoke up. "But we saw him at the party, minutes after they split off. Anyway, we went over to say hi, but the place was _jam-packed_ dude, and I mean like..." His douchy time grinded on Wilbur's ears unpleasantly. "Like _packed_ with babes. We got distracted, y'know? Who wouldn't? So uh, the next time we looked over they were both gone. I'm not worried though. Been a while, but they probably got high or something and got lost."

Wilbur cleared his throat. "And is that something that they do often?"

"Nah man, the first one, George? He's innocent as hell, dude." The third guy continued, voice full of mockery for his friend. "Hasn't touched a gram of anything. He drinks, but that's basically it."

There wasn't anything interesting on the floor, either. Wilbur stood up to aimlessly open the closet door. "So what makes you think that's what happened?"

There was no response this time. The man who greeted him at the door started again, voice cautious. "I'm the one that filed that report. I wouldn't have, if I thought they snuck off or something. But I've got a feeling about this. A bad one."

 _You and me both buddy_ , Wilbur thought. The closet was empty, probably because all the clothes were piled on top of each other in the corner. He closed the door in dissatisfaction.

"And the weirdest thing?" The man paused. "I called him _three_ hours before the report. The call went through."

"What do you think might have prompted them to split off?" Wilbur asked absentmindedly, pondering where to look for possible clues next.

The room was small, and there wasn't anything else to look at without rousing suspicion. The men's suitcases were off limits, since he couldn't exactly unzip them and go through the contents undetected.

"I dunno, honestly. Nothing." The first guy rubbed his eyes. Huge eye bags had formed under them, giving him a harried, tired look. Worry was evident on his face. "Nick is super responsible, and George never runs off on his own. It's weird."

Wilbur walked back over to the beds, kneeling in front of the nightstand this time. It was empty, save for a notepad and a pen, both branded by the hotel.

He recognized them as the usual souvenirs hotels left in rooms in touristy areas. Complementary objects to sway customers to their side.

However, the notebook had been flipped open, and the paper was very slightly indented.

Wilbur grazed the bumpy surface with his finger. "That's odd..."

"I know, right?" The second guy chimed in. "It's like, they vanished from right in front of our eyes! I don't even know how-"

"No, not _that_. This." Wilbur interrupted. "Did any of you use this notepad?"

One of the guys peered over his shoulder. "Uh, no, but I'm pretty sure Nick did. Why?"

Wilbur held his hand out. "Do any of you have a pencil?"

"Um, yeah, hold up." A pair of footsteps trailed away behind him to rummage in one of the suitcases. Something was placed in his outstretched palm. "Here you go."

Wilbur closed his fingers around the pencil, taking great care to lightly brush the tip across the paper.

The door swung open behind him, and a lazy pair of footsteps shuffled across the carpeted floor. He recognized them as Schlatt's from the pace. "Hey, Wil, I'm-"

He stopped dead in his tracks, presumably because of the tension in the air. Wilbur turned around, holding the notepad out to let his partner have a look.

"Something was written on the page above this. By one of the missing college students. But..." He pointed to the small bit of ripped paper on top. "It was ripped out."

"Well, shit." Schlatt replied, voice gruff from his smoke. "What a bummer." He looked around at the men gathered around Wilbur in confusion. "Well, we're done here then, right? Let's go."

He was about to turn to the exit when Wilbur's hand shot out to grab onto his sleeve. "Wait. Not yet, Schlatt. Look."

The pencil glided over the indents on the paper, coating everything in graphite. Everything except...

"The letters!" One of the guys exclaimed. "They're showing up! How?"

The first few lines appeared in white in front of the grey. It was a simple trick, but the look of surprise on Schlatt's face made Wilbur's heart swell with pride.

"When I apply just enough pressure, the pencil covers the top layer of the paper." He turned to explain to the group. "It doesn't touch the markings made by the pen on the first page."

Finally, the text was uncovered. Wilbur walked over to Schlatt's side to let him read it.

_"Hey man, I know you've been looking for a proper descendant for Varraas once you... y'know... retire. And I think I found the perfect guy for the job. He's been my friend for years and trust me, no one would be a better fit than him. That is, if you manage to convince him. He's as stubborn as a mule. Who knows, maybe that's a good thing. I know you enjoy those types."_

Schlatt looked at the paper, then at Wilbur, then back at the paper again. It seemed none of them could puzzle out the meaning.

"The fuck is this?" He scoffed.

Wilbur read the contents of the page one last time, but he was even more dumbfounded. "I don't know." He said, finally. "But we better take this down to the station."


	22. Mystery Destination

George felt a crushing weight taken off his body as soon as the cool air hit his face. He felt free. Or at least, as free as he could've with a cuff around his wrist.

It was as if the coil of invisible rope binding him to the basement had been unraveled, snapped in two. He was weightless, filling with joy with every breath of fresh air and-

"George?" Ah. Of _course_ Clay had to rain on his parade with his presence. "I need to lock the door."

Right. They were bound together. Not optimal for... escape purposes.

"Oh. Sorry."

He moved closer to the door so that Clay could turn the key in the lock with his right hand.

After dropping the bundle of keys in his pocket, his captor turned to him. George expected a menacing intimidation tactic directed at him, or maybe a threat, but the only emotion he could read on the face in front of him was concern.

Finally, Clay spoke. "You look even paler in daylight."

George wasn't sure how to respond to that. _Yeah, months of psychological torture does that to people,_ he remarked, although only in his head. Just as he was about to open his mouth, the murderer wordlessly turned and started walking, almost toppling George over from the unexpected pull.

They walked side-by-side wordlessly for a while. Not that it was a bad thing - it left some time to appreciate the air. God, it felt pathetic admitting that. Appreciating the _air_...

Blades of grass poked out from between the cracks in the concrete below them. George made a note to avoid stepping on them. Maybe as an acquired sympathy for those struggling to survive, having experienced it first-hand.

He shook his head at the thought. Since when had he gotten so soft? Feeling sorry for grass... Jesus.

They - or rather, Clay, followed by a stumbling George - made a sharp turn to the left, coming across a dumpster pushed against a chain link fence.

"I hope months of sitting around haven't been too rough on you." Clay swung out his right arm to encourage George to go ahead. "You're gonna have to do some wall scaling, I'm afraid."

Months of ' _sitting around_ _'_ _?_ George directed every single curse word in his vocabulary at the man. But he had to maintain a calm demeanor.

"I'm gonna have to scale a chain link fence-" Not a big deal. He was a former college student with his fair share of similar experiences, after all. "-With one free hand?"

Clay's lips quirked to the side as he considered the question. He clearly wanted to keep the cuffs attached, but getting past would be near impossible while being tied together.

Finally, he heaved a defeated sigh. Music to George's ears. "Fine."

The key to unlock the handcuffs was on the same bundle. After a satisfying click, the metal jabbing into George's skin fell away and disappeared into Clay's pocket.

"But you know better than to try something." He added nonchalantly, indifferent tone veiling a warning.

Taking a second to ready his stance, George lunged at the chain link fence, vaulting over it with almost no trouble and landing on the other side.

He wondered whether he'd get a better chance to escape than this or not. With a few seconds ahead, on the other side of a wall... Risky. But possible.

However, he didn't get much time to entertain the thought as Clay stepped up onto the dumpster and effortlessly scaled over the obstacle. If George had been proud of his little showcase, he was a bit embarrassed now. The psychopath even landed weightlessly. Fucker.

Clay flashed a proud grin as he adjusted his clothes. It reminded George of a competitive child who had just outdone his friend.

A small shiver ran down George's spine. The air had definitely changed. It felt... chillier on the other side of the fence. He threw one last look over his shoulder as they continued farther down the alley.

_________

"Alright. Run me through the events." Schlatt peeked over his coffee mug, eyes bleary and not particularly full of interest. "What have we got?"

The table between them was even messier now, something Wilbur had deemed impossible. He pressed onto the case files with his fingers, contemplating where to begin.

"So we know these two disappeared from a party. The first guy, George, headed out of the hotel room early, with the rest of the group." He looked up from the papers to glance at Schlatt for approval, who was staring up at the ceiling with his arms crossed against his chest. "The second guy who went missing, Nick, was spotted later by the security cameras. None of the friends knew he'd be there."

There was a short hum from his partner, and nothing else. Wilbur leaned over the table, waiting for a reaction of some sort, but continued.

"Now unfortunately, we don't have any audio from the footage. But we can go off on hand gestures." He pulled out a printed picture of the two missing men, one with his hand outstretched towards the alley they had disappeared into. "I suspect two things here. One-"

"Let me guess." Schlatt rested his chin on top of his interlaced fingers, leveling Wilbur with a thoughtful gaze. "The first scenario - the guy leads his friend away, kills him and flees." He leaned over the table, mirroring his partner's pose. "And second - there's a group of people waiting in that dark alley for random people to come through, then jump them."

Wilbur squinted, continuing his assessment no matter how unpleasant the interruption was. "Right. I was thinking of a different scenario. A mixture of the two." He pushed the clutter to the side with his arm, and placed two fingers on the empty space to signify the two men. "What if the guy was _leading_ them both to the ambushers?" He slid his fingers over to mimick them walking over to the alley. "Not sure what the reason would be in that case, at least yet."

Schlatt huffed. "Beats me." He took a long sip of his coffee. "If that's the case, he hasn't turned up. The ambushers would only target his buddy, right?"

_________

"So..." George drummed his fingers against his palm out of discomfort as they walked. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

All he got was a curt reply. "You'll see soon enough."

They'd been walking for a while. Ten minutes, George assumed, but he'd learned not to trust his own sense of time by now.

They'd been going down the same alley the whole time, and while he tried to memorize the directions to where they were heading, the path they took twisted and turned every second.

The last time he'd been outside was while attending a celebratory midnight firework display that went off at the exact moment he'd entered the alleyway, ending up celebrating his capture. Although it hadn't been intentional, of course, it sure was ironic.

George's eyes caught onto a pebble at an intersection that he could swear they'd passed almost seven times now. "Alright, jeez. Can you at least give me a hint?"

An early morning sky had spread overhead this time, its pale and pristine sea of colors accompanying their trip to the mystery destination. George braced the chilly air with closed eyes. The much-missed feeling gave him a sense of freedom he hadn't stopped to appreciate enough in his life.

"We're not going anywhere right now. We're just walking."

" _What_?" George shook his head incredulously. "Walking?! As in, just, _aimlessly_ wandering all this ti-"

He heard a huff beside him accompanied by a soft smile. It was bizarre, how he had to get used to seeing actual human emotions on Clay's face now.

"We're not walking for leisure, George." He paused his pace. "We're walking to make you give up on trying to learn the directions."

"What- How... did you-"

Clay leaned down to pop the familiar pebble in his pocket. Crap. He'd probably made it too obvious.

It's odd what kind of wonders being starved of something does. Going outside... It was something he'd taken for granted. He hadn't realized just how precious the feeling of standing under the open sky was before he was stripped of the right to do so.

"I can tell. You think you can sneak something past me when I've spent the last months studying you?" He tilted his head. "Studying your features?" An annoyingly confident smirk spread across his face. "I know what you're thinking just by looking at your _face_ , George."

 _I bet you do, you fucker_ , George thought. He mentally flashed the man a middle finger. Maybe he could see _that_ by looking at his face. Sure would save the trouble of verbally voicing his hatred.

Well, he'd been busted. But Clay didn't seem too mad about it. And more importantly... it _had_ been months. The concept of time hadn't _completely_ melted around them. Although there was another detail.

He'd placed the pebble in his pocket. That meant he didn't want George to learn the directions... As if he'd ever get the chance to use them. His fate had been set in cards, and never getting to see the light of day again was part of that destiny.

But the calculated psychopath never misspoke. He had to check. "Why would I-"

"Need the directions?" Clay finished his sentence. "Well, if that's your way of asking if you're being set free, I can tell you right now the answer is no."

Not surprising. But then why-

"Although." He continued. "I don't plan on being around forever."

George rolled his eyes. "Going on vacation? Propping up dead bodies all day must be _soooo_ exhausting. Boohoo."

He cursed himself in his head for not holding back the snarky remark. However, to his relief, a small smile spread across the man's face. "That's not what I meant."

Not going to stick around forever... "You mean dying of old age?" If that's what he meant, George would be hobbling around with a cane by the time he was free. Given that he'd even outlive his captor. "It's not like anyone can... ' _plan_ ' to die of old age."

"I'm not talking about death by natural causes, George. I know that. I've seen the failure of someone trying their best to survive it first-hand."

A somber look had settled on Clay's face. The subject seemed to be touchy, and George contemplated whether to push it. After all, he had to fall in the murderer's graces if he wanted to expose him to the law.

"So, uh-"

"One thing I've learned, George, is that the more you struggle against something, the stronger its eventual grasp on you is going to get. And it _will_ catch up to you. No one can run forever." They turned another corner. This section of the road seemed new. "You're only here because you struggled. You resisted against being trapped here, and you dug your heels deeper in the mud."

It's not everyday he got told that the sole reason he was trapped in a dark torture chamber was himself.

Though he supposed it was true. If he hadn't fought so hard to survive, he'd have been lying dead in a ditch somewhere right now. Would he have preferred that over all he'd endured? Debatable.

They took another turn into an unfamiliar stretch of road. It seemed they were finally on the way to the actual destination.

George did his best to remember the directions, although he was sure they did at least one loop to throw him off track. He'd given up by the end, anyway.

After a few more minutes of walking, they stood outside a dingy single floor building, tucked away covertly in a bundle of twisting alleys.

The windows had been sloppily boarded up from the inside, letting a few threads of warm light outside through the cracks. Even through the shut door, muffled banter could be heard, with a TV in the background.

A lit up light had been posted up above the door - 'The Halo Bar' - although a few of the letters had gone dim.

"This is it." Clay walked up to the door. "I know it doesn't seem like anything special."

George's eyes slid down from the dilapidated bar to the concrete lining the outer walls, watching a soft gust of wind blow a discarded wrapper away. "You're right. I was expecting something-"

"Cooler?" Clay's lips quirked into a look of genuine amusement. "Hold your judgements until after you've seen the inside."

________

Hi everyone! I've created a discord server so if you want to come hang out and talk to me and others, join <3 we also have channels related to this fic, so you can discuss theories and get book updates. I'd love to have you here with the rest of us. Invite link is in my bio.


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